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AUO. 2, 1888, 


rIVINGSTON MOODEY 


t LONDON 


1043(106 FOURTH AVE 
^ iNEW YORK. 


COPYRIGHT 1888 BY O.M. DUNHAM 


Inteml at tliePopt Ofllro, Now York. N. Y., ns Socotid Clap? 'Mattor, Mnv 11. P?88. 


p| phidICE FIGTION 




COPYRIGHT. 


“ UNEASY RESTS THE HEAD 

that wears a crown,” unless it’s polished with 

SAPOLIO. 

It is a solid cake of Scouring Soap. Try it in your 
next house cleaning. 

Even a king can -secure cheap comfort and easy 
relief from the cares of house-cleaning by the in- 
vestment of a few cents in a cake of Sapolio. With 
it wonders can be accomplished in cleaning and 
scouring, for which purposes it has no equal. 
“Dirt defies the King,” but it abdicates wherever 
Sapolio makes its appearance and quickly, too. Try 
a cake. ' No. 35. 


THE TRAGEDY OF 
BRINKWATER 


A NOVEL 


BY 



MARTHA LIVINGSTON MOODEY 




CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited 
104 & 106 Fourth Avenue. New York 




Copyright, 

idS/, 

Bv O. M. DUNHAM. 


A ll rights reserved. 


» 


Press of W. L. Mershon & Co., 
Rahway, N . J, 


TO 


ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS. 







CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

Brinkwater Folk, .... 

PAGE. 

• 9 

CHAPTER 11. 

The Return of the Heir, 

• 15 

CHAPTER III. 

The Tragedy, 

• 30 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Inquest, 

• 34 

CHAPTER V. 

At the Prison, .... 

• 45 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Sheriff of Marshmeadows, 

• 54 

CHAPTER VH. 

A Night Visit, 

• 73 

CHAPTER VIII. 

What the Sheriff Discovered, 

. 89 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The Meeting of the Prisoners, . . 102 

CHAPTER X. 

The Temptation, iii 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Clew, 117 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Return of the Fugitive, . . 130 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Mother and Son, 140 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Will, 150 

CHAPTER XV. 


The Trial, 159 

CHAPTER XVI. 

After the Trial, 174 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Ernest's Dream, 180 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

The Meeting in the Cell, . . . 186 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Gallows, 192 


CONTENTS, 

CHAPTER XX. 

The Hearing, ... 

CHAPTER XXL 

At the Lawyer’s, 

CHAPTER XXIL 

A Death-bed Confession, 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

A Marriage and Reprieve, 


vii 

PAGE. 

. ^00 

. 210 

. 214 

231 


4 ^ 



THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 


CHAPTER 1. 

BRINKWATER FOLK. 

T he village of Brinkwater took its name from 
the Farrell estate, which was situated on the 
borders of a small lake that had an outlet through 
the marshes of Claire County. It lay in the lap of 
a soft, peaceful landscape, embosomed in drooping 
trees, and consisted of a few rustic streets that 
straggled off from the village-green and ended in 
the village church-yard. 

The family of Farrell, which originally consisted 
of Andrew, Agnes his wife, by a second marriage, 
and two sons, half-brothers, was now diminished 
by the death of Andrew Farrell and the withdrawal 
of Joseph from the roof of his step-mother, leaving 
Mrs. Farrell and Ernest the sole occupants of the 
homestead, which, lifted on an eminence, was the 
most pretentious house in the neighborhood, domi- 
nating the whole landscape with its turreted and 
gabled roof, and standing like a feudal chief in the 
midst of his humble retainers. 

The community of Brinkwater had been greatly 


lo THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

excited over the character of the will left by the 
late Andrew Farrell, which gave his large estate to 
the elder son, the only conditions being an allow- 
ance to the younger son, the amount of which was 
left entirely to the discretion of the heir, and the 
reversion of the estate to Ernest Farrell in case his 
elder brother died without issue. Mrs. Farrell had 
accepted an ante- nuptial settlement which barred 
her right to any further claim on the estate. The 
mother and step-son had been antagonistic from the 
first. Joseph Farrell, being of an exceedingly sel- 
fish disposition and miserly by nature, had resented 
his father’s second marriage. He thought the 
beautiful young girl who had brought no portion 
would be likely to bring a numerous family to share 
the inheritance, and from the moment of the birth 
of Mrs. Farrell’s son, Joseph Farrell had made her 
life a burden. Young, beautiful, ambitious, she 
had hoped to shine and reign ; but she had found 
her dream a delusion. Joseph Farrell thwarted 
her at every step. His influence with his father 
being unbounded, Joseph became her real master. 
The settlement, made upon her before her marriage, 
though seeming large to her inexperienced youth, 
and her poverty, was really very small, and when 
later she discovered this fact, she never doubted 
that her husband’s sense of justice would make on 
his demise a suitable allowance to the mother of his 
child. That her son would be left to the mercy of 
his half-brother she had never imagined ; and no 
one was more astonished and indignant at the con- 


BRINKWATER FOLK. n 

ditions of the will than Agnes Farrell herself. 
Her first impulse was to contest the will and ap- 
peal to the justice of the law, but she soon found 
that the law is more concerned with precedent than 
with justice, and that Andrew Farrell had a perfect 
right to do with his own as he pleased. The con- 
ditions of the will had naturally widened the breach 
between the step-mother and her step-son. and made 
a residence under the same roof no longer desir- 
able, nor indeed possible. Joseph Farrell set up an 
establishment in New York and became known in 
club circles as a bon vivant and man of fashion : at 
this juncture he was daily expected to return and 
carry out the provisions of his father’s will. The 
current of public sympathy ran all in favor of the 
younger brother ; he was a favorite in the com- 
munity, where his goodness, beauty and grace were 
the pride of the whole village. His friendship and 
good-will were as spontaneous and impartial as the 
shining sun ; and his ready sympathy for all sorrow 
and distress was genuine and helpful. He was 
attached to the people and the soil ; he was one of 
themselves, and purposed to make his home at 
Brinkwater ; while the elder brother, an alien and 
an absentee, scarcely veiled his contempt under a 
show of civility for their homely, country ways. 

Mrs. Farrell had never shared in the affection 
her son’s character inspired. She was known to be 
pious, just, charitable and sternly truthful ; but she 
was proud, reserved and haughty. All evil-doers, 
both great and small, were withered by her scorn ; 


12 


THE TEA GEE V OF BRINKWATER, 


she never forgave an injury ; she was exacting to 
the uttermost farthing ; but her friendship once 
won, never decayed ; her gratitude enlisted, she 
never forgot. She had a tall, splendid figure, with 
abundant black hair, and dark eyes that blazed or 
swam, as the mood swayed her : a Roman presence, 
with the spirit and will of a Roman matron ; a few 
loved, many feared, but all admired her. 

The wealth, beauty and magnificence of the 
Farrells had been the common property of which 
Brinkwater was proud and made its boast ; a high- 
day and holiday thing, for which they watched and 
waited as each Sunday brought around the pageant 
of the Farrell equipage ; when men, women, and 
children ranged themselves at the church door to 
see the stately black-haired Agnes descend from 
her luxurious carriage, assisted by her son, and 
sweep with her silken draperies into the little 
church to worship the same Creator that they wor- 
shiped. And somehow, though unacknowledged 
to themselves, her superiority conferred a distinc- 
tion on the worship and added a reflected glory to 
their humble aspirations. 

Martha Blunt, the only servant the present 
straitened circumstances of Mrs. Farrell allowed 
her, had dwelt in the family as friend and domes- 
tic for twenty-five years. There had been a rumor, 
many years before, that the natural idiot son of the 
housekeeper was half-brother to Joseph and Ernest 
Farrell, though there seemed to be no foundation 
for the story except that furnished by the mystery 


BRINK WATER FOLK. 


13 


of his paternity ; yet many people fancied they saw 
in the hue of complexion and hair of the idiot 
signs of consanguinity to the Farrell brothers. 

In the family dissensions, Martha Blunt, though 
taking the part of peacemaker, was always in sym- 
pathy with Agnes Farrell, who had been a kind and 
liberal mistress to her, and had won the house- 
keeper’s heart by her thoughtful kindness to her 
idiot son, which had been in strong contrast to 
Joseph Farrell’s brutal aversion to the unfortunate 
boy. 

Every body in the village knew of the betrothal 
of Ernest Farrell and Virgin Grey ; there had been 
no attempt at concealment, indeed, for from the 
day of their engagement Miss Grey had been a 
frequent visitor at the house of Mrs. Farrell. She 
had often been seen in the village, and on Sundays 
occupied, with meek and reverent grace, a seat in 
the family pew. 

Many pretty pictures of the wandering lovers 
had been seen by the villagers under the Farrell 
elms, and beside the lake of Brinkwater ; the whole 
community was interested in this tender idyl, and 
watched it with curious, sympathizing eyes. Virgin 
Grey was a slender, graceful girl, of the delicate 
lily type, who had passed her twentieth year, but 
her modest, half shy bearing and blonde beauty 
made her pass for a much younger woman. The 
chief beauty of her face was in its expression ; so 
mild and tender, almost pathetic, it seemed as if 
the shadow of a great sorrow veiled its winsome 


14 


; :C- r 


THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

brightness. With friends she was frank and art- 
less, with a sweet, caressing manner that won affec- 
tion from the outset ; but an intimate acquaintance 
with her revealed a strength of character and 
maturity of judgment not suspected by a super- 
ficial observer. She was an orphan, the ward of an 
uncle by marriage, Benedict Strong, an attorney in 
Marshmeadows, the neighboring county town, who 
lived far beyond the income the practice of his 
profession yielded, and being yet a young man, 
had sought and been elected to the office of prose- 
cutor for the state, in the hope of being brought 
into professional prominence. He was, essentially, 
a criminal lawyer and loved the work as the hound 
loves the chase. 

The engagement of young Farrell and the niece 
of Benedict Strong had existed since before the 
death of Andrew Farrell ; consequently before 
the conditions of the will were disclosed ; but from 
the moment it became known to the wily attorney 
that the estate had been left away from Ernest, 
his strenuous opposition to the marriage of his 
niece had begun. There had been instant revolt 
on the part of Virgin, and she declared her determ- 
ination to act in the matter as her heart and 
judgment dictated. The events which quickly fol- 
lowed caused her withdrawal from his roof, and a 
serviceable friend was turned into a subtle enemy. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE RETURN OF THE HEIR. 

T the close of a hot, dusty summer day, a hand- 



ii. some traveling barouche stopped at the door 
of Brinkwater Tavern. Although the turfy streets 
yielded scarcely a sound to the rolling wheels of 
the great barouche, every door and window bore a 
witness to its splendor, and all the village idlers 
and children ran out with fragments of their unfin- 
ished evening meal adhering to lips and fingers, 
lest, like the famous coach of Cinderella, the ba- 
rouche should resolve itself into a common pumpkin, 
and cheat them of an unwonted spectacle. 

A stout, self-important man leisurely alighted, 
dressed from his shining hat to his polished boots 
in the very extreme of fashion, and seeming to 
dwarf every object by his magnificent superiority. 
The bustling landlady instinctively clapped her 
palms to her frowzy head and switched her apron 
across the chair she placed before him ; the next 
moment she vanished, and on her way to make a 
more elaborate toilet, informed the cook and hostler 
in an awestruck whisper, that Joseph Farrell had 
come back, looking as big and handsome as a new 
painted stage-coach/' The crack of the kitchen 


1 6 the TRA GED Y of brink IV a 7ER. 


door disclosed to the curious eyes of the peeping 
pair, a robust, middle-aged gentleman, rosy, with 
blonde, curling hair and beard, sparkling brown 
eyes and a Roman nose. He wore a suit of rich 
blue cloth, and dazzling linen ; the white hand he 
drew across his broad forehead was adorned with 
a diamond ring, that, as the hostler declared, made 
the sun wink,'’ while the great seal that dangled 
from his watch-fob, played hide and seek with the 
evening light. 

“ I don’t know what you’re going to give him 
for supper,” said Serepta Jocelyn, the cook ; 

looks as if he had fed on whale. I reckon we 
can’t do better’n our best though.” 

Well, git out the chaney, and silver spuns, and 
put yer best foot foremost, Serepty, I guess the 
March rooster’ll hev to do,” said the landlady, now 
resplendent in her Sunday gown and cap. 

The object of all this harmless interest, though 
intensely conscious of the commotion his appear- 
ance in the village had excited, leisurely ate the 
hasty meal the resources of the inn provided, with 
the serene and meditative air of a man on good 
terms with himself, and at peace with all the world. 

He chews his victuals like they was the curd of 
human kindness,” said Serepta, as she turned from 
the door-crack to watch the cakes browning on the 
griddle ; “ he’s as condescendin’ with the cream as if 
it was only chalk and water ; fur my part, I hate 
city folks’ ways.” When Joseph Farrell had finished 
supper, he told the landlord, who had returned in 


THE RETURN OF THE HEIR. 


17 


time to make a reconnoissance through the door- 
crack, and enter with a scraping bow, that he had a 
business engagement with Mrs. Farrell and her son, 
that evening, but he would return to the tavern 
for the night, ordering the best lodgings the house 
afforded. The landlord and his wife waited long 
for their guest, but as he did not appear at midnight, 
they naturally concluded that the violent storm 
which had set in late in the evening had detained 
him, and its continuance had compelled him to 
spend the night under the roof of his step-mother. 

Mrs. Farrell had invited her step-son to remain 
with her during his brief visit, but as he had de- 
clined the courtesy, he was not expected to tea, and 
when Ernest met his brother at the hall-door he 
ushered him at once into the library, where Mrs. 
Farrell awaited him. It was evident from the first 
moment that the visit was to be a purely busi- 
ness one ; the chilling reserve of Agnes Farrell, the 
embarassment that Ernest could not conceal, the 
half-defiant air of one who had an advantage which 
Joseph Farrell showed, made it at once apparent 
that the civilities between them were enforced and 
that the meeting was to be one of armed truce. 
There seemed to be some difficulty in approaching 
the subject to be discussed. Mrs. Farrell would 
make no advance. Ernest awaited his brother’s 
movements, and Joseph at last said: ‘‘You are 
aware of the nature of my errand here, Mrs. Far- 
rell ? ” 

“Yes.” 


1 8 THE TE AGEEV OF BRINKWATER, 

I suppose you have made your arrangements 
in accordance with the change in your circum- 
stances ? 

I have made no arrangements.” 

My mother and myself have been awaiting the 
settlement of the estate,” said Ernest. 

The estate is settled^"' replied Joseph Farrell with 
emphasis. 

“ I believe it was the intention of my father to 
grant me a suitable allowance,” said Ernest with 
dignity, 

‘‘What do you consider a suitable allowance, 
pray ? ” 

It was Mrs. Farrell who answered in a tone that 
trembled with suppressed agitation, “ Something 
between the costly luxuries of life and the bare 
necessaries.” 

The rosy face of Joseph Farrell flushed to an 
nngry crimson. 

The question of an allowance to my half-brother 
is not between you and me, but between him and 
me, Mrs. Farrell.” 

“ Whatever concerns his welfare concerns mine,” 
she said. 

“You accepted an ante-nuptial settlement, I be- 
lieve ? ” 

“ I did, but I was young and ignorant, and unused 
to business transactions then.” 

“You mean to imply that my father took advant- 
age of your youth and ignorance, do you ? ” the 
man’s tone was intolerable. 


THE RETURN OF THE HEIR. 


19 


Let us waive a discussion of this part of the 
subject, and come to the business to be settled 
between us at once,” said Ernest excitedly, pausing 
in his restless promenade in front of his brother. 

May I ask what you consider a suitable allowance 
for me ? ” 

I know very well what my father thought a 
sufficiently large allowance for me, at your age,” 
was the answer. 

You were sheltered, clothed, and fed at his ex- 
pense, at the same time,” said Agnes Farrell. 

The law has settled all questions pertaining to 
this matter, between you and me, madam,” replied 
the step-son with an angry snarl. 

Mother, leave this discussion to me, I beg,” said 
Ernest, gently. Your interference will only pro- 
voke insolence, and I can not restrain myself if it 
goes too far.” 

Joseph laughed loud and coarsely. There was 
a whispered conference between Ernest Farrell and 
his mother, but she refused his entreaty to leave the 
room. 

I have no time to waste on sentiment,” inter- 
rupted the elder brother impatiently. “ A storm 
threatens and I must return to Brinkwater before 
it bursts.” 

“ The business is in your own hands, you can do 
as you please, I suppose. I will not condescend 
to beg where I have a right to share,” said 
Ernest. 

It would avail you nothing to beg ; on the sub- 


20 the TE AGEEV OF BRINKWATER. 

ject of your rights the will is explicit ; my mind is 
made up, and I am not a man to change it.” 

For the better, no, indeed,” interposed Agnes. 

If your father in his infirmity had not been unduly 
influenced, he would not have made so cruel and 
unjust a will.” Joseph turned his back deliberately 
upon his step-mother and answered nothing. 

Speak what is in your mind at once,” said 
Ernest, and let this disgraceful business come to 
an end.” He took his stand beside his mother, 
and left Joseph Farrell staring blankly at the 
wall, who, turning quickly in his chair, faced the 
mother and son defiantly. You are twenty-six 
years old,” he burst out, addressing Ernest ; you 
are young, strong, and have remarkable ability ; 
you have had thousands of dollars expended on 
your education, and you ought by this time to have 
acquired knowledge enough of some kind to aid 
you in earning a living. You have no one but 
yourself to care for ; I ignore, you see, the possibility 
of your intended beggarly marriage. I consider a 
monthly allowance of fifty dollars as sufficient to 
cover all the requirements of the will.” 

Amazement and indignation for the moment held 
Ernest Farrell speechless. 

Agnes Farrell’s wrathful protest was unheard in 
a tremendous explosion of thunder, for the brood- 
ing storm had burst at last with terrible fury ; 
torrents of rain poured down, accompanied by 
peals of thunder and vivid lightning. Joseph 
Farrell walked to the front window and looked out 


THE RETURN OF THE HEIR. 


21 


upon the storm ; a blaze of blinding lightning 
sheeted the glass against which his figure stood 
out like a picture. 

If heaven would but strike him where he 
stands ! ” was the involuntary thought of Agnes 
Farrell. He turned at last and approached his 
young brother. I am shortly to be married," he 
said, “ and go abroad to live. My affianced wife 
is a woman without fortune, who has been, how- 
ever, brought up in luxury. I shall have no more 
than I need to live in the style I mean to maintain 
as a married man." He hesitated as though 
expecting a reply, and waiting in vain, he added. 
Your exceptionally good looks ought to bring you 
a wife with a handsome dower." The sting of this 
was in the fact that Joseph knew of his brother’s 
engagement to a girl without fortune. 

I do not propose to barter what you are 
pleased to call my good looks, for a rich wife, and 
you will be good enough not to trouble yourself 
with conjectures about my future." 

I don’t intend to trouble myself about your 
future," replied Joseph, brutally. “ When will you 
and your mother be ready to give up possession of 
this property ? ” 

Do you mean to rent Brinkwater ? " asked 
Agnes Farrell, in astonishment. 

I do." 

Does your intention embrace the homestead ? " 

‘‘ It does." 


2 2 the tragedy OE BRIHJCIVA7ER, 

Then you literally turn us out of house and 
home ? ” 

My house and home, madam.’* 

‘‘ But one you have no need of, which you do not 
intend to use, and to which I am strongly at- 
tached.” 

“We can not always have the things to which we 
are strongly attached.” 

“ I am ready to pay you for the use of it.” 

“ I prefer to choose my tenants ; Brinkwater is 
already rented.” 

“ Controversy with this man is useless, mother ; 
we are powerless ; but we are not yet beggars ; let 
us maintain our dignity, at least,” said Ernest. 

“ There is very little dignity in poverty, Ernest,” 
sighed Agnes ; “ but I am rich in possessing you,” 
she added in a whisper. 

The fury of the storm continued ; there seemed 
no prospect of abatement. It was a good mile by 
the highway to the village. Joseph Farrell had 
walked, unaccompanied, the nearest way across the 
pleasant fields, expecting to return to Brinkwater 
before dark. He went to the front door and looked 
out ; the darkness was impenetrable and the wind- 
beaten .rain descended in torrents. For reasons, 
best known to himself, Joseph Farrell was a timid 
man after night. His residence in the great city 
had made him suspicious of his fellow-man ; his 
valuable trinkets, which had been noticed and 
admired in the village, might excite the cupidity of 
some night-prowler, who, favored by the darkness. 


THE RETURN OF THE HEIR. 


23 


would not hesitate to waylay and rob him. Apart 
from the storm, then, there was a good reason why 
he should not venture abroad at so late an hour* 
There is no prospect of my getting away to- 
night,” he said angrily, on returning to the room. 
‘‘ A fish could hardly live in such a storm.” 

“ There is no reason why you should go,” replied 
Ernest. The instinct of hospitality, which he had 
inherited from his mother, was very strong in him. 
“ Besides, this is virtually your own home ; my 
mother and I invite and expect you to stay ; ” he 
looked toward his mother as he spoke. 

The change in my circumstances has made it 
necessary to dispense with my horses and servants, 
else, as you wish to go, I would offer you a conduct 
through the storm ; but I join my son in inviting 
you to pass the remainder of the night with us. 
You are welcome to the shelter as long as it is 
mine to offer,” she added, bitterly. 

I was a fool to walk over unattended,” replied 
Joseph Farrell ; ‘‘but I must stay, perforce, there 
is no help for it now. I told the people at the inn 
I would come back, but they can not expect me in 
such an infernal storm as this.” 

The brothers went up the great old-fashioned 
stairway together, Joseph Farrell acknowledging 
the stately inclination of Agnes Farrell with a curt 
bow. She watched them as they went up side by 
side ; the sensual features of the elder man contrast- 
ing strongly with the refined beauty of her own 


son. 


24 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

Heaven has been cruel to us/' she sighed, as 
she took up her candle and ascended by a private 
stairway to her own bedroom. 

‘‘ I suppose we may consider this business 
settled?” said Joseph Farrell, when the brothers 
had reached the door of the guest-chamber. He 
spoke in the assured tone of one who, as far as he 
was concerned, had disposed of a disagreeable 
duty. 

“ I have no choice,” said Ernest. 

‘‘ You have this choice : you can accept or de- 
cline.” 

Released from the restraint his mother’s presence 
had imposed, Ernest Farrell gave way to the pas- 
sion of anger that consumed him. If the blood of 
the bully that flowed in Joseph’s veins had tainted 
his own he would have struck him where he stood ; 
but he could not forget that this man was his 
brother, his guest, and his father’s lawful heir. He 
was simply acting out his brute-nature. Ernest 
could not descend to meet him on his own level. 
Pale with wrath, his voice husky with the restraint 
he put upon himself, he told his half-brother in a 
few, sharp, bitter words, that his conduct was 
unnatural and cruel ; for himself he asked nothing ; 
but to his mother some luxuries had become a 
necessity, and he was willing to mortgage his future 
claim on the estate if, during her life-time, Joseph 
Farrell would give a lease on the homestead to his 
mother. 

“ The arrangement is simply impossible ; I have 


THE RETURN OF THE HEIR, 2$ 

already leased Brinkwater to my prospective wife's 
father.” 

Can’t the arrangement be set aside ? ” asked 
Ernest. 

“ I see no reason for setting it aside,” replied 
Joseph. 

So you are determined to drive my mother 
from the only home she ever owned or loved ? ” 

‘‘ Her so-called ownership expired with my 
father’s life.” 

‘‘ Look at it in this light,” cried Ernest, excitedly ; 

if your wife should be left a childless widow and / 
become the heir-at-law, your example might bear 
as bitter fruit as that you offer to my mother.” 

“ In a/iy event my wife will be provided for, and 
I repeat your own warning not to meddle with my 
future or that of my proposed wife.” His face was 
livid with rage. 

I will live to see this wrong righted,” were 
Ernest Farrell’s last words, as his brother closed 
the door in wrath upon him. 

^ ^ 

Alone in her chamber, Agnes Farrell gave way 
to a transport of tears. The visit of Joseph Far- 
rell from which she had hoped so much, in spite of 
her knowledge of the man’s character had yielded 
only bitterness and despair. She reviewed the long, 
sad story of her wrongs ; her early, and loveless 
marriage ; the antagonism of her step-son ; her 
husband’s unjust and cruel will, and now this en- 


^6 


THE TEA CEE y OF BFINHWAIER. 


forced exile from the beautiful home, of which she 
had so long been mistress, to seek a shelter where 
she could ; and most bitter of all, the overthrow of 
Ernest’s hopes and the indefinite postponement of 
his marriage. She railed against the law ; against 
her dead husband ; against her step-son. Her 
imperious spirit could not brook the indignity of 
her position ; to be turned out virtually penniless 
upon the world, to come down to the poverty of her 
youth, with all the wretched past behind her, and 
to face a wretched future, was intolerable. Her 
whole life had been wasted in grasping at a bauble, 
which at last had eluded her reach, and through no 
fault of his, her son was involved in her ruin. She 
went to her bed a desperate woman. Sleep was 
impossible ; in vain she strove to gain composure : 
her temples throbbed, her heart swelled as though 
it would burst. She sought to fix her wandering 
attention on some one object ; her eyes fell upon a 
yellow silk dressing-gown of Ernest’s that hung on 
a chair at her bedside ; she tried to hold it in her 
mind to the exclusion of every thing else ; she 
counted the buttons down the front, backwards and 
forwards ; she noticed every detail of the garment 
from the crumpled cambric handkerchief, with her 
initials in the corner, which dangled from the 
pocket, to the silken cord that trailed upon the 
floor ; then her thoughts wandered to a pictur^f 
the housekeeper’s idiot son flying through the 
park in the purloined garment, pursued, and cap- 
tured by his mother, his leering look of triumph as 


THE RETURN OF THE HEIR. 


27 


he darted aside and eluded her : the association of 
ideas was endless, and, wearied with her efforts to 
induce sleep, she rose and saturated a napkin from 
a bottle of chloroform that had its place on her 
dressing-table : under its soothing influence she was 
just dropping into a grateful sleep when the 
entrance of Ernest aroused her. He took off his 
coat, replaced it with the dressing-gown, and sat 
down at the bedside to talk over with his mother 
the distressing events of the evening. There was 
nothing to be said that could alter the case ; they 
knew the matter was settled, as far as Joseph Far- 
rell was concerned, and that resistance was useless. 
“Nothing but his death can help us,” sighed 
Agnes. 

“Unless he comes to a violent end, he seems 
likely to outlive us both, mother,” replied Ernest, 
“ and his marriage, if it bring issue, bars me for- 
ever from inheritance of the estate.” 

“ Oh, that he would die to-night,” she moaned. 
“ He will be overtaken by some just punishment, 
for his hardness and cruelty, I do believe.” 

“ It is of you, mother, and Virgin, I think,” con- 
tinued the young man ; “ for myself I ask nothing, 
and should scorn the pitiful sum he offers ; but 
small as it is, it will eke out your meager income, 
and Virgin will wait, I know, until I am able to 
offer her a home of my own making.” 

“ What little there is, is yours and hers, Ernest,” 
replied his mother ; “ we can at least share our 
poverty, my love.” 



28 the tragedy of brinkwater. 

She seemed utterly spent and weary, and looked 
so pale and worn, that Ernest, thinking sleep the 
best restorer, bade her good-night, extinguished 
the lamp, and leaving the dressing-gown on the 
chair where he had found it, went directly to his 
own room. 

After her son had left her, Mrs. Farrell, through 
complete prostration, fell into a deep sleep, from 
which she was aroused with a feeling of suffoca^ 
tion ; with an effort she raised her heavy eyelids, 
and a flash of lightning from the spent storm 
revealed the figure of Ernest near the bedside, 
clothed in the yell9w dressing-gown, his back turned 
toward her, and holding in his upraised hand the 
bottle of chloroform. In an instant all was dark 
again. 

She had an impulse to speak to him, but, as 
though under the influence of a nightmare, could 
utter no sound ; the next moment she lapsed into 
a heavy sleep, from which, long afterward, it 
seemed to her, she awakened suddenly with a 
feeling of alarm, and springing up in bed strove to 
throw off the lethargy that bound her faculties. 
Hearing a slight rustling sound outside, she rose 
and went into the hall, and was surprised to find 
the hall lamp dimly burning, which was explained, 
however, when she saw, on looking over the banis- 
ters, her son near the foot of the stairway : a towel 
stained with blood pressed against his temples, 
concealing his face up to the roots of his 
hair ; blood was trickling down the front of the 


THE RETURN OF THE HEIR. 


29 


dressing-gown, also. Thinking he was suffering 
from bleeding of the nose, to which after any great 
excitement he was often subject, she leaned over 
the banisters and essayed to call him, but she felt 
heavy and drowsy, and she remembered that her 
voice sounded, in her own ears, faint and remote ; 
that Ernest kept on his way and did not answer 
her. The next moment she was seized with a feel- 
ing of vertigo, and fearing to fall, she tottered back 
to her bed. 

In the clear light of the morning, Mrs. Farrell 
recalled the events of the night, as the phantoms of 
a distressing dream, inspired by the excitement of 
the evening before, and disfhissed the subject as 
trivial and unimportant. 






CHAPTER III. 

THE TRAGEDY. 

O N the morning of June twentieth, Joseph Farrell 
was found murdered in his bed at Brinkwater 
Heights. 

This was the awful news that reached the village 
of Brinkwater on that beautiful morning. The 
earth was redolent with summer glory and sweet- 
ness ; the heavens smiled ; the birds sang ; the 
breeze lifted the leaves and curled the water ; the 
children played in the street ; but as the horrid 
tidings flew from mouth to mouth, there fell a 
shadow on the summer air ; every human face in 
Brinkwater was awe-stricken, and the laughter and 
play of the children was stilled. All work was 
stopped ; men and women, collected in groups, 
with little children huddling close, talked of the 
awful deed. That a murder had been committed 
in their innocent community dropped upon them 
like a bolt from a cloudless sky. 

The man had not a known enemy in the place : 
there had, it seemed, been no attempt at house- 
breaking, or robbery, and no footsteps had brushed 
the morning dew from the lawn. Whoever corn- 


THE TEA GEE V. 


31 


mitted the murder had been locked that night in 
the house with the victim. No one but Agnes Far- 
rell and her son could profit by the taking-off of the 
heir of Brinkwater. Who could have done the deed 
but an aggrieved and wronged enemy ? Who was 
wronged and aggrieved but Agnes Farrell and her 
son? The conclusion was evident that one, or. 
both, of these interested people had committed the 
murder. 

Still it was incredible ! Men must see and touch 
this bloody horror ere they could believe in its truth. 
And that of all their number Agnes Farrell and her 
son should be the accused ! 

Public opinion unanimously strove to exonerate 
Ernest Farrell. No one would, no one could, for 
one moment, .believe that this bright, beautiful, 
loving youth, who had grown to manhood in their 
midst, could find it in his heart to harm a living 
thing. How many kindly acts, accepted once as 
matters of course, but recalled now with a new sig- 
nificance, were remembered to his advantage ! No, 
it was impossible that Ernest Farrell could have had 
a hand in the murder of his brother. 

Opinion was divided about Mrs. Farrell’s connec- 
tion with the crime. Womankind in Brinkwater, as 
far as heard from on the street, were against her to 
a woman ; men were willing to give her the benefit 
of a doubt and to await an investigation. But the 
fact that Agnes Farrell had sold herself for money, 
as it was said, that the money had been left away 
fron^ her and her cherished son, seenied a sufficient 


32 






THE TEA GEE V OF BEINEIVATEE, 

motive, in the absence of any other motive, for the 
commission of the crime. 

The question of Martha Blunt’s probable connec- 
tion with the murder was also discussed ; but it was 
known she had been summoned, early in the even- 
ing, to the bedside of a sick relative, where she had 
passed the night, leaving Ernest Farrell and his 
mother alone in the house with their guest. It was 
clearly impossible, then, for the Brinkwater mind to 
come to any satisfactory conclusion. Mrs. Farrell, 
and all her belongings, had occupied so high a 
place in public esteem that she could not be judged 
by an ordinary standard ; that this woman, who 
seemed so far above the reach of circumstance 
could be dragged down from her high eminence, 
to the level of the vilest criminal, was too mon- 
strous for belief. Their moral sense had received 
a shock from which it would take long to recover ; 
they had been in a manner defrauded, and there 
was a sense of loss that was personal to every man, 
woman and child in the village. 

If it excelled in any thing, Brinkwater excelled in 
virtue, and as a law-abiding, religious community 
it was known throughout the country-side. No 
criminal had ever been bred in its borders, and the 
ruthless arm of the law had never ravished a single 
member from this peaceful fold. 

’Tis true they had their little feuds in church 
and state, but antagonism never ventured beyond 
controversy, and so great was the trust of each man 
in his brother that all lay down at night with 


THE TEA GEE V. 


33 


unbarred doors, in the consciousness of absolute 
safety. The crime of murder was so monstrous, 
and to their apprehension so unusual, -that the 
discussion of it assumed the figure of a circle 
around which horror, mystery, and suspense held 
an equal adjustment. 

Exaggerated rumors kept the public pulse at 
fever heat. Stories to the effect that Mrs. Farrell 
had taken her life ; that Ernest Farrell had disap- 
peared ; that, after all, Joseph Farrell had only 
committed suicide, filled the air. But as the day 
wore on the true story was unfolded in all its simple 
horror ; the house, with its ghastly secret, was in 
the possession of the law, and Agnes Farrell and 
her son were given over to be held for the awful 
crime of murder. 

The summer air was heavy with the tragedy ; 
the creeping terror of a murder chilled the evening 
breeze, curdled the blood, and oppressed the hearts 
of the innocent dwellers of Brinkwater. Night fell 
with an added awe, and in its black shadow, as 
under a sheltering wing, men lay down to sleep, 
perchance to dream of murder. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE INQUEST. 

coroner was summoned, a jury impaneled, 
and an investigation into the murder of Joseph 
Farrell begun without delay. 

Martha Blunt, Mrs. Farrell’s housekeeper, was 
the first witness examined, and testified under 
oath : 

On the evening of June twentieth, Joseph Far- 
rell, bachelor, aged forty-five, by arrangement with 
his step-mother, Agnes Farrell, and his half-brother, 
Ernest, visited the house at about seven o’clock in 
the evening. He declined supper, having supped 
at Brinkwater Tavern where he expected to return 
for the night, but the heavy storm that came up 
before the business between them was over pre- 
vented his return and he stayed all night at Brink- 
water Heights, occupying the spare room, situated 
in the north-e^st corner of the second story. There 
had been a dispute in the library, part of which I 
overheard, in regard to the will of Andrew Farrell. 
Joseph Farrell was very insulting, and Ernest and 
his mother were very angry. I had been sent for 
to spend the night at the bedside of a sick relative, 


THE INQUEST, 


3.5 


and after getting leave from Mrs. Farrell, I locked 
up the house securely, as was my nightly duty, and 
went out by the rear door ; the key of which I al- 
ways carried, and of which I was very careful, wear- 
ing it on my person, as I knew the property of my 
mistress was at the mercy of the finder of it. On 
returning early in' the morning I found the house 
closed as I had left it, the family not yet risen. I 
got breakfast ready, but no one answering the ris- 
ing bell, I went up stairs to speak to Mrs. Farrell. 
I was surprised to find the upper hall lamp burning. 
I heard the milkman’s ring, and went down without 
having seen my mistress, though I knew she was 
awake, as she spoke to me from her room. When 
the breakfast bell rang, Mrs. Farrell and Ernest 
came down, the former looking very pale, and say- 
ing she had passed a bad night. Ernest Farrell 
seemed about as usual, though somewhat depressed, 
I thought. Having waited a reasonable time for 
the appearance of Joseph Farrell, breakfast was 
ordered to be served, and I went up stairs at the 
request of Mrs. Farrell to call her step-son. I 
knocked on his door, but getting no response, I 
supposed he had risen and gone out early. After 
doing up my work below stairs, I went above to put 
the chambers in order for the day. I went to Ern- 
est Farrell’s room first, taking a change of bed-linen 
with me, as Mrs. Farrell told me he had had the 
nose-bleed in the night. I found the upper sheet 
and the pillow-cover stained with blood ; but this 
toeing nothing uncommon I changed the bed with- 




36 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINK WATER, 

out thinking any thing wrong. I found the door of 
Joseph Farrell’s room still locked from the hall en- 
trance, and then went round to the ante-room door, 
which was closed, but had the key, I noticed, on the 
outside. I went into the room and found the shut- 
ters wide open ; a lamp was burning on the table, 
which I turned out. A suit of men’s clothes hung 
on a high-backed chair at the bedside, and seeing 
that Joseph Farrell had not risen, and did not 
awake at the sound of my entrance, I went out 
quickly, picking up as I went out a blood-stained 
handkerchief, that I knew by the initials in the 
corner belonged to Mrs. Farrell. I associated it 
with Ernest, who had conducted his brother to his 
room, and I carried it to Mrs. Farrell, whom I 
found hunting about her room for the yellow silk 
dressing-gown of her son, which was missing. I 
helped her search for it, but we did not find it. I 
went down stairs again, and in cleaning about the 
back door, I saw in the brighter morning light 
what I had not noticed before, the print of bloody 
fingers on the inside knob ; then for the first time, 
a horrible suspicion of foul play crossed my mind. 
I went up stairs trembling so that I had to hold to 
the banister for support. I found Mrs. Farrell 
walking back and forth in the front hall. We were 
alone in the house, Ernest Farrell having gone to 
the village to look for his brother. Mrs. Farrell 
saw my agitation, and catching me by both hands, 
begged me for God’s sake to tell her what was the 
matter, I told her what I had seen^ and what I be- 


THE INQUEST 


37 


lieved, she tottered to the hall sofa and sank upon it. 
I thought she was going to faint, and fanned 
her with my apron. ^ Where is Ernest ? ’ she 
gasped. I told her he had gone to look for 
Joseph Farrell. She started up from the sofa, 
and was going down stairs, when, fearing she would 
fall, she seemed so shaken, I supported her on one 
side, and she caught hold of the banister with the 
other hand. ‘ I believed it was a dream,’ she 
whispered under her breath. I did not ask her 
what she meant, for we were both wild with appre- 
hension and terror. I led my mistress toward the 
library, that being the room nearest the stair-way, 
but she pointed to the breakfast-room, and just as 
we crossed the threshold she fell to the floor in a 
dead faint. I opened her dress for air, and saw she 
had the handkerchief I had found tucked in her 
bosom. Hearing Ernest’s footsteps I called to 
him to come to my help. She revived a little when 
we laid her on the sofa, but she resisted our inten- 
tion to carry her to her chamber, so we concluded 
to move her to the drawing-room, where .we made 
her as comfortable as we could on the great divan. 
Ernest Farrell did not stop to ask any questions, 
being very much alarmed, but went in great haste 
to the village for the family physician. I was terri- 
bly frightened on being left alone, for I thought 
Mrs. Farrell was dying ; she was deathly pale, cold, 
rigid and speechless ; her eyes were open, but she 
did not appear to see, and I begged her in vain to 
speak to me. After what seemed to me to be a 




3S THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

long time, Ernest Farrell came back with the doc- 
tor. It was some time before we could get Mrs. 
Farrell to swallow any thing, but soon after the 
medicine began fo act : when she regained her 
speech, her first words were, ‘ Oh, why did you not 
let me die ! ’ The doctor ordered warmth and 
cjuiet, and as soon as I could get a chance I told 
Ernest Farrell of the awful suspicions that had 
brought about his mother’s alarming condition. He 
was dreadfully shocked at what I told him, and 
went immediately to the doctor, and repeated what 
I had said. They talked apart for a short time and 
then went up together to the room where Joseph 
Farrell had passed the night, and found him with 
his throat cut from ear to ear.” 

The long and garrulous testimony of the house- 
keeper was not interrupted. The woman was 
evidently telling the truth in a perfectly straight- 
forward manner, with intelligence, but unconscious 
of its gravity. The truth was what the officers of 
the law wanted, and the onerous duty of the inves- 
tigation of a murder-case being new to them, and 
the evidence being wholly circumstantial, it was 
deemed of the greatest importance to take cogni- 
zance of the most trivial fact. The testimony of 
her housekeeper, which tended to criminate Agnes 
Farrell and her son, was given by the woman in 
good faith. She did not connect her mistress in 
the remotest degree with the murder, and she 
dwelt at length on the subsequent alarm and pros- 
tration of Mrs. Farrell, with the evident intent to 


THE IHQUEST 


39 


show her mistress’ dread and abhorrence of the 
crime. Like all her sex on the witness stand, 
she protested too much, she weakened where she 
might have strengthened the case of her mistress ; 
but, indeed, she did not think of ‘‘a case,” at all. Her 
candor was the best evidence of her sincerity, for 
if she had had a suspicion of the guilt of her 
patrons and wished to shield them, she would 
have been suspicious and wary. As she stepped 
aside and took her place among the throng of 
towns-people that filled the great dining-hall, where 
the inquest was held, she saw herself confronted 
by the anxious and sorrowful faces of the villagers. 

‘‘ She’s fixed Miss Farrell’s cage for her, I 
guess,” said David Fry, who knew something about 
law, as well as a good deal -about theology ; I 
wouldn’t want a better witness than that woman if 
I was prosecutor.” 

‘‘ It takes a woman to put her foot in it,” said 
Jim Denby. 

‘‘Yes, and this ’un put both feet in, and threw 
her tongue arter ’em,” added Sam Baylis, the vil- 
lage joiner. 

“ Has she got a grudge agin’ Miss Farrell, I won- 
der ?” came from Betsey Driggs, who was always 
present where a spectacle was in progress. 

“No, indeed,” replied Denby. “They’re the best 
of friends and comrades ; if Agnes Farrell could 
a done sich a thing, she’d a called on Martha Blunt 
to help her, and she wouldn’t go back on her mis- 
tress neither. The housekeeper’s just tellin’ the 


40 THE TRAGEDY OF BR/HH WATER, 


simple truth ; but she’s told too much, and she’s told 
it too well. If any o’ you know any thing and air 
’cited to tell it, you’d better take warnin’ by Marthy 
Blunt.” 

“Well, look out fur yerself, Denby, it appears 
you hev somethin’ to tell,” said David Fry. 

“ I ain’t got nothin’ to tell that’s goin’ to hurt 
Miss Farrell, or Ernest. I see a light in the win- 
der, and I see a man at the winder, it might a bean 
Joseph Farrell his self, fur all I know ; he ’peared 
to hev on a night-gownd ; that’s all I’ve got to tell.” 

“ But you’ll be crossed-questioned, when it comes 
to a trial, and come it will,” replied David Fry. 

“ They’ll not git more out o’ me than there’s in 
me, I guess,” said Denby. 

“ No, but Benedict Strong will twist it ’round, and 
turn it inside out, till he makes black out of white.” 

When Martha Blunt heard from the gossip of 
her fellow-villagers that her testimony had borne 
against her mistress she was amazed and grief- 
stricken. To connect Agnes Farrell even in 
thought with the crime, was an outrage. She burst 
into tears when Betsey Driggs upbraided her with 
disloyalty to the people who had made her what 
she was, as Betsey expressed it, and said, “ I swore 
to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, 
and I did it.” 

The entrance of Ernest Farrell, who was the 
next witness, forestalled further gossip. He was 
pale with excitement, but he gave his testimony, 
which in regard to the main facts corroborated the 


THE INQUEST 


4i 


housekeeper’s testimony, in a firm voice and with a 
manner of enforced composure. 

Agnes Farrell being unable to appear, her depo- 
sition was taken ; it was somewhat rambling and 
incoherent, and left a confused impression that 
she withheld something, but it confirmed what had 
gone before, and even to a certain extent crimina- 
ted herself. 

Dr. Armitage testified : I was hastily summoned 
to see Mrs. Farrell on the morning of June 21st, 
whom I found suffering from violent hysteria. 
After getting the spasms under control, and seeing 
the symptoms yield to the treatment, I was about 
to leave the house when Ernest Farrell came to me 
in great agitation and informed me the housekeeper 
suspected his brother had been foully dealt with. 
At his request, I accompanied Mr. Farrell to the 
room of his brother. We received no answer to 
our summons, and Mr. Farrell led the way to 
another entrance into which the suite opened. On 
turning down the sheet I found the dead body of 
Joseph Farrell. The jugular vein was severed and 
death had been instantaneous. An odor of chloro- 
form escaped from the sheets, showing that the 
man had been asphyxiated before the knife was 
used. The hands were folded on the breast, the 
print of a bloody right hand on the back of the 
murdered man’s right hand showed the deed had 
not been self-committed.” 

Hannah Wraith, monthly nurse, testified : I was 
sent fur on the night of the murder to wait on Mis’ 


42 


TME TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 


Smart, she that was Matilda Jones,” (reminded that 
Mrs. Smart was not connected with the case). I 
sent the boy ahead,” continued Mrs. Wraith, some- 
what bewildered by the interruption, to say I was 
cornin’, fur I didn’t mind goin’ alone, bein’ used to 
putterin’ about at night. I gathered up my catnip 

and lantern which I keep handy bein’ expectin’ ” 

(here Mrs. Wraith was again reminded to keep 
strictly to the evidence) ; and as I came in sight of 
Widder Farrell’s house I seen a bright light in the 
upper winders. Thinkin’ it was sickness, that bein’ 
in my line of business, I was curus, and wanted to 
know, hevin’ heard that Joseph Farrell had come 
back, and knowin’ this light was in the spare room 
winders, I thought I would jest look round, knowin’ 
that I had plenty of time, as Mis’ Smart was slow, 
though her name is Smart ” (recalled). Well, then, 
I stepped on to the verandy, just under the front 
winders. The trees and every thing was drippin’ 
from the heavy rainstorm, and I felt kind o’ skerry. 
I looked up and I seen a figger inside the 
room ; the light was . furnent me and the figger 
which made a sort of dancin’ shadder on the wall. 
I can’t say if the shadder was male or female. 
Yes, it had on a gownd. I thought I’d jest slip 
’round and see if Marthy Blunt was stirrin’, fer I 
knowed if dwas sickness she would be in the kitchen 
gettin’ hot water and the like, though I knowed I 
had no occasion to be intrudin’ myself in Mis’ Far- 
rell’s affairs, she hevin’ no use fer me, bein’ dreadful 
sot on Nancy Blake, but ” (recalled again). 


THE INQUEST. 


43 


Where did I leave off ? Oh, yes ; I went round 
the back way and got there jest in time to see from 
behind the water-butt, Ernest Farrell, or what I took 
fer him, bein’ a tall man sized about like him. 
No, ’twas too dark to see if he was light or dark 
complected, or what color his hair was. He carried 
a bundle in his arms and was in a great hurry. I 
see right away it wan’t Marthy, bein’ too tall, Marthy 
bein’ low ; and not wantin’ to be ketched watchin’, 
I ducked behind the butt, though if it hed of bean 
Marthy I wouldn’t have minded ; me and Marthy 
alius hevin’ bean good friends. Where was I ? 
Yes, I remember now, I heard the cellar door 
unlock’d and laid back, and when I thought the 
coast was clar I peeked out and see the man shet 
down the cellar door and lock it agin. When I 
heard the back door shet I knowed I had found 
out all I was a-goin’ to, though it wan’t much to be 
sure. I heerd somethin’ drop when I got round 
front agin, and I gathered up my lantern and 
started on. I overtook Jim Denby splashin’ along 
in the mud with his lantern ; and I ses, ‘You’re at 
yer old trade agin, air ye, Jim ? ’ And ses he, ‘ Yes, 
folks must be buried, fer the night cometh ’ — but I 
forgit the Scriptur’, and I sed I was at my trade 
too, fer folks must be born, and they most generally 
took the night time to do it in, though for my part 

I don’t see as there’s any ” (recalled). “ We 

jogged along talkin’ about life and death, he bein’ 
at one end o’ the line of business and I at t’other. 
No, he didn’t say nothin’ to me about what he hed 






44 T//E TRAGEDY OF BRIE^KWATER. 

seen, he bein’ awful close-mouthed and so be I, but 
I knowed he knowed as much as I knowed, fer 
’twas him I heard drop. I hurried up, fer Mis’ 
Smart, although she’d had five, one pair o' twins 
” (choked off). 

After much other testimony more or less irrel- 
evant, Stephen Black, coal dealer, testified that in 
putting away a load of coal for Mrs. Farrell on the 
twenty-first of June, he had found concealed in the 
coal-bin a dressing-gown in which were rolled a 
bloody towel and knife. 

The coroner added his own testimony to the 
above, and the case was ready to go . to the Grand 
Jury. 


CHAPTER V. 


AT THE PRISON. 

A t last the coroner’s verdict was given to the 
eager villagers, and every heart sank as they 
heard the dreadful words — That on the morning 
of the twenty -first of June^ Joseph Farrell had corne 
to his death fro77i a wound inflicted by some sharp 
instrument in the hands of Agnes Farrell and Ernest 
Farrelir 

There was nothing left for the. law to do but to 
arrest the criminals, bury the body, and place the 
property under the protection of the law. It’s 
work was swift and merciless. 

When from her feeble condition the officers of 
the law had talked of separating Agnes Farrell and 
her son, and taking him alone to prison, leaving a 
guard to prevent Mrs. Farrell’s escape, she had 
risen from her bed at once and declared her ability 
and intention to go. After the terrible ordeal of 
the morning she had sunk from the reaction of 
excessive emotion into an apathetic state from 
which she was aroused by the arrest of Ernest. 
He had implored her to remain in the house, for he 
knew that tended by her faithful housekeeper, 
although under legal surveillance, she would be 


4 ^ THE TRAGEDY OF BRINK WATER. 

more comfortable than in a felon’s cell. But she 
peremptorily refused to be separated from her son. 

No,” she said, with a resolute effort, ‘Hhe roof 
that shelters you is good enough for me ; come ! ” 

They went forth together, Ernest supporting the 
tottering steps of Agnes Farrell, who cast a back- 
ward look of anguish at the beloved home, whose 
threshold she was destined never to cross again. 

The drive of four miles to the county town of 
Marshmeadows, where the jail was located, was af' 
terrible journey'for Agnes Farrell and her son. 

Pale as his prisoners. Sheriff Martin rode beside 
the carriage in silence ; he scarcely dared to look 
at the accused, for grief, he knew, though self- 
inflicted, was a sacred thing. The evening gloom 
shrouded these two wretched people as they were 
borne through the streets of Brinkwater, bowed 
down with grief and shame ; and many a sorrowful 
group, for horror had melted into pity at the sight, 
watched them as they vanished in the darkening 
distance, and then went sadly to their homes to 
repeat in endless narration the awful story of the 
murder. Sheriff Martin, who had taken the pris- 
oners in charge, as was his duty, conducted them 
at once to his own house, for the prison, from long 
disuse, was found to be in an utterly uninhabitable 
state ; the cells were damp and noisome, the iron 
gratings rust -eaten, the locks and bolts immovable. 
The sheriff was too humane a man to inflict useless 
suffering and risk on those committed to his keep- 
ing, and he took the responsibility of holding under 


AT THE PRISON, 


47 


his own roof, which indeed was one with the jail, 
the prisoners he had just brought in until the prison 
quarters could be got ready for them. 

Samuel Martin had been a resident of Brink- 
water before his election to the office of sheriff. 
He had known the Farrell family from his child- 
hood. Years ago, when Ernest was a mere boy, the 
sheriff’s little son, while playing about the lake had 
fallen in ; the water was deep, and wide, and night 
was falling when the accident occurred. Ernest 
Farrell, in the holiday attire of a birth-night party, 
plunged into the water, and saved the boy’s life at 
the risk of his own. Ah, many a time had Samuel 
Martin thought of the heroic deed, and wished, 
ay wished, the rescue had never been made. For 
the fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, on whom his soul 
doted, had gone astray and was now a fugitive 
from justice. No criminal ever came into the 
sheriff’s hands who did not find justice tempered 
with mercy ; for in the eyes of every victim of the 
law he saw look forth the hunted soul of his wan- 
dering son. Gratitude and sympathy bound him to 
these new victims, whose humble, life-long friend 
he had been, with a double tie. “ No irons,” he had 
said to the turnkey who accompanied him when 
the arrest was made. “ I will be responsible for 
the conduct of these people.” And from the first 
moment he refused to believe them guilty, and set 
himself to evolve a theory of the murder which 
should exonerate Ernest Farrell and his mother. 

The evening of this summer day proved to be 




48 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

chill and rainy, and a fire had been kindled in the 
broad chimney of the great stone-flagged parlor of 
the sheriff’s house. 

A green parrot, hung aloft, ruffled its feathers, 
and croaked in a drowsy, muffled voice at the en- 
trance of the strangers : Poor Polly, Poor Polly ; ” 
then fully roused he shrieked aloud: ^‘Murder! 
murder ! murder ! He did it ! he did it ! he did it ! 
Kill him! kill him! kill hbu!'' Agnes Farrell, ab- 
sorbed in her anguish, had not heard the parrot’s 
first utterance, and when this accusing cry rang on 
her ear, struck with mortal terror, as though 
through this prophetic voice she heard her son 
condemned by all the world, she would have 
fallen to the earth if the swift arms of Martin had 
not caught her. Cover up that darned bird!” 
he roared to his wife. It’s only Dick’s parrot, 
ma’am,” be said, placing Mrs. Farrell gently in a 
large arm-chair. The boy taught it to say a good 
many things, and that wicked speech stuck by him, 
as wicked things are apt to do. I would have 
killed it long ago but for Mary. Dick loved the 
parrot so ; and the bird had a sort of human feel- 
ing for him. Mary thinks he hasn’t many friends 
now. We seldom mention him, to each other,” the 
sheriff went on, as though he would make Mrs. Far- 
rell forget her sorrow in listening to his own, but 
he is never out of our thoughts day or night. The 
bird sometimes calls out his name, and it goes like 
a knife through my heart, but women are different 
to men ; Mary says it seems as if he wasn’t forgot- 


AT THE PRISON. 


49 


ten ; though he’s not likely to be that, while her 
heart and mine beats. Mary,” he called to his 
wife, bring Mrs. Farrell a cup of tea, quick.” 

The sheriff’s wife, a buxom, sweet-faced woman, 
of great goodness of heart, yet all a woman, had 
stood aghast from the moment of the entrance of 
the prisoners. They were strangers to her. She 
had been a keeper at home in Brinkwater, and had 
not mingled with the village gossips ; she only 
knew of this woman, through the praises of her 
husband, as the rich, proud, beautiful Mrs. Farrell, of 
Claire County. She had often seen her carriage, 
with its laughing bevy of summer guests, roll 
through the streets of Brinkwater, and had looked 
upon her as a being privileged above the lot of 
common mortals. Agnes Farrell then, as a mur- 
deress, was something so monstrous that she could 
not adjust herself to the conception of the idea. 
She approached the prisoner timidly, with the cup 
of steaming tea. Could it be that the white and 
jeweled hand extended to take it was red with 
murder ? Agnes Farrell raised her heavy lids and 
gave a heart-rending look into the face of the 
sheriff’s wife. She saw compassion painted there ; 
for Mary Martin recognized in the prisoner a suf- 
fering woman, and a heart-broken mother. How 
dare she whose own son was a fugitive from justice 
sit in judgment on this woman ? If she showed 
no pity to this sinful, nay, perhaps wicked woman, 
what man or woman would show pity unto hers ? 
If she was hard and uncharitable, would not her 




50 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

unborn babe, receiving from its mother a heart of 
stone, turn and rend her in the evil days? 

Ah, you too are a mother,” sighed Agnes, see- 
ing the conflict in Mary Martin’s face,‘‘ and have suf- 
fered ; ” then, for the first time since the tragedy 
that had overthrown her hopes and filled her with 
shame and despair, she wept great drops of bitter 
tears. The jailer’s wife kneeled beside her and 
strove to soothe, if human words and sympathy can 
soothe, in such a desperate strait, the stricken 
woman. 

There, dear heart, cry, cry ! ” she said, min- 
gling her tears with those of Agnes Farrell, ’twill 
ease and do you good.” 

Meanwhile Ernest Farrell paced the room in a 
state of terrible agitation, stunned with horror at the 
crime, and stung with shame at the situation in 
which he found himself. The murder, the inquest, 
and the arrest had followed each other in such rapid 
succession, his mother’s condition had so alarmed 
and occupied him, that his thoughts and feelings 
had been on the rack all day ; he had had not one 
moment in which to reflect on the awful result a 
trial would bring forth, if the evidence before the 
coroner was sustained. He looked at his wretched 
mother and saw reflected in her face that she had 
foreseen from the first the desperate situation. 

Alone, without money, — for the fact that his 
brother’s death made him the heir to his father’s 
estate had not occurred to him, — to whom could 
they turn for aid ? And (ah, bitterest thought of 


AT THE PRISON, 


51 


all ! ) would she who had plighted her troth to him, 
the woman he loved with his whole soul, abide faith- 
ful in the face of this awful and disgraceful calam- 
ity ? His shame burned him at the thought of 
what she must suffer when the hideous story of the 
murder came to her knowledge ; he was over- 
whelmed for a moment, but the next, with prompt 
decision, he drew forth a card and pencil from his 
pocket, and stooping over the sheriff’s table strewn 
with writs and subpoenas and other official papers, 
he wrote with throbbing brain and trembling 
fingers a letter to his love. He strove to compose 
his thoughts, and frame some words of renunci- 
ation that would bear the burden of his love and 
anguish — of his innocence he did not even think — 
when the outer door swung open, and, unannounced. 
Virgin Grey, her hair beaded with the summer rain, 
her lovely, anxious face flushed with emotion, her 
eyes shining through their tears like stars, swiftly 
entered, and before he was aware of her presence, 
her arms were around her lover’s neck, her head 
was on his bosom, her voice was pouring words of 
love and hope in his entranced ear. “ I did not 
ask permission, the door was unlocked,” she said, 
turning to the sheriff who had just entered and 
was looking on wonderingly at the scene. Before 
God,” continued Virgin Grey, this innocent and 
wronged man is my affianced husband ; this 
injured woman is my mother ; if they are guilty, I 
am guilty, and my place is beside them.” 

I’ve no objections. Miss Grey, to your seeing 


52 


THE TEA GEE V OF BRINKWATER, 


your friends,’* replied the sheriff with an embar- 
rassed air ; but it’s not quite regular ; and being 
an officer, and a sworn agent of the law, I must 
do my duty.” 

Yes, Martin,” said the young gir], you must 
do your duty, but remember that a higher law 
says we must do justly and love mercy. It is 
hard, indeed, for these dear friends to suffer for the 
truth’s sake, and you and I and all who love them, 
must endeavor our utmost to find out the whole 
truth that lies buried under this terrible error.” 

Agnes Farrell lifted her eyes, and fixed them 
upon Virgin Grey, without one ray of hope in their 
dark depths. If,” she said to herself, this girl 
were an angel sent from heaven to save us, I 
might believe her ; but she is only a fallible mortal, 
and she has not seen what I have seen."'" 

Virgin, seeing the drooping and despairing form 
of Agnes Farrell, went across the room and knelt 
at her feet. ‘‘ Mother,” she cried, taking the cold, 
passive hands of the prisoner, and pressing them 
against her gentle bosom : “ may God forget me, 

and cast me off forever if I forsake you in your 
calamity. Nothing but death shall part us.” Ay,” 
whispered Agnes Farrell, hoarsely, “ but death will 

part us ; death ” she dare not finish the awful 

sentence. 

‘‘ No,” Virgin passionately exclaimed, this 
ordeal ;;///i‘/end in a triumph. Oh, mother ! remem- 
ber, and be comforted, that the blessed Saviour of 


AT THE PRISOH. 53 

mankind suffered disgrace ” — Ay, and an igno- 
minious death,’' groaned Agnes. 

And as surely as He rose from the grave and 
ascended into heaven to judge the living and the 
dead, so surely will He burst these bonds of error 
and false judgement that blind and bind our 
accusers.” 

Virgin rose to her feet as she uttered aloud these 
prophetic words, looking like an inspired Sibyl 
who saw beyond the veil of time and sense. And 
who shall say that she did not ] Love and faith 
are the wings that uplift the soul above the mists 
that veil its horizon, and give prophetic visions of 
the future. 

The prison bell struck nine o’clock. I’ll see 
you home. Miss Grey,” the sheriff said, in an author- 
itative voice that suggested obedience. Ernest 
rose involuntarily to go with her, when the recol- 
lection that his freedom was gone struck his heart 
with a new pang ; he sank into a seat and dropped 
his head in despair. 

Look up, dear love,” cried Virgin, with a glance 
directed to his mother, for her sake, and believe 
for mine that all will yet be well.” She paused a 
moment on the threshold, looking back with tender, 
smiling eyes, then vanished like a lovely, heavenly 
vision. 




CHAPTER VI. 

THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOWS. 

S AMUEL MARTIN was a man beneath whose 
blunt manners and rugged exterior lay a large 
and tender heart. Since his election to the office 
of sheriff, nearly two years before, the ‘‘ crimes 
and misdemeanors ” committed under his jurisdic- 
tion had been, compared with other districts, 
remarkably few. The custody, therefore, of two per- 
sons whom he had long known and honored, held for 
murder and likely to be convicted and executed, 
was an intolerable burden to a man of his sensi- 
bility. 

The fascination that the charm of Ernest Far- 
rell’s character had obtained over the mind and 
heart of this plain man was marvelous. He had 
held him in contrast to his own erring son so long 
that he came at last to regard Ernest Farrell as an 
epitome of human perfection. His friendship for 
the family, his obligation of gratitude to Ernest, 
his firm belief in his innocence, with the fear that 
one day, (he shuddered to think), some one might 
have to do for his own son, what it would 
become his duty to do for young Farrell, filled 
him with such anguish and sense of responsi- 
bility that he felt he bore upon his shoulders the 




THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOWS, 55 

sins of the whole world. He had never for one 
moment believed in the guilt of Ernest. What the 
solution of the mystery that shrouded the murder 
was, he could not divine, but that there was a solu- 
tion which should confirm the innocence of the 
son, at least, he firmly and solemnly believed. 

After the indictment for murder was brought 
by the Grand Jury he could not rest ; the indict- 
ment seemed, to his excited mind, equivalent to 
conviction ; he felt there was not a moment to be 
lost in seeking the hidden clew to the crime which 
existed, as yet, only in his imagination. 

His thoughts were constantly employed in invent- 
ing different theories of the murder, which were 
abandoned almost as soon as conceived. 

He had assumed the innocence of one of his 
prisoners, at least, but how to effect a rescue was 
the question that filled his waking-hours and 
haunted his sleep. He was too wise a man, how- 
ever, to let suspicion get abroad that the Sheriff of 
Claire Cqunty was in sympathy with his prisoners. 
He knew thoroughly the character of Benedict 
Strong and the course he would be certain to pur- 
sue in prosecuting the case ; that he would use all 
legitimate and illegitimate means to attain his object, 
and would secure the best legal aid the county 
afforded, thus leaving the defense enfeebled and 
powerless. The sheriff would give him no advantage. 

The Farrells’ were without money or relatives to 
advocate their cause ; imprisoned and under the 
ban of popular conviction ; the chain of circum- 







56 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINHlVATEk. 

stantial evidence was complete and consistent ; the 
case was indeed desperate. Where to turn for 
help the anxious sheriff did not know. He must 
stand between these hapless people and their doom. 
If they were guiltless he felt that a heavy share 
of the responsibility of their taking-off would fall 
upon him. Every impulse of his soul commanded 
him to treat these people, whose keeper he was, as 
innocent victims of a terrible mistake. As he trusted 
God’s mercy would be shown to his own son, he 
must do his duty in seeing that the law did not 
transcend its prerogative by punishing the innocent 
to appease the precipitate demands of justice. It, 
perhaps, was the strongest evidence of the man’s 
honesty that, tortured as he was by this dreadful 
anxiety, the thought that it was in his power to free 
the prisoners and aid their escape, had not yet sug- 
gested itself to him. He went one day to a drug- 
gist, however, feigning toothache, and asked for an 
ounce or two of laudanum. The man labeled the 
bottle poison^ telling the sheriff the vial contained 
opium enough to compass the death of several 
people, and advising him to put it beyond the reach 
of his children. 

There’s only the baby, and he has not taken to 
climbing yet,” replied the sheriff. The thought of 
the wanderer was in his heart, but he could not, 
alas ! be counted among the children. 

Martin walked away with the drug in his pocket, 
not daring to think what he might possibly do With 
it. 


57 


THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOWS, 

Mrs. Martin saw the harrowing pre-occupation 
of her husband, and tried to wean him from the 
trouble that preyed upon his mind by appealing to 
his fatherly affection. See how it grows, Samuel,'’ 
she said, uncovering the tiny, red, wrinkled face of 
the new-born infant. 

Does it ? ” asked Martin, looking absently at 
the little being which was so lovely in the eyes of 
the fond mother ; then turning away with a deep 
drawn sigh, added Ay^ but ifs a boy, Mary ! ” 

Were you wanting a girl, Samuel ? " asked his 
wife, tenderly. 

“ Our little maid that died gave us no trouble 
'all her sweet young life. I thank God ! she is safe 
in heaven, Mary. But the boy, you know ” 

“Yes, father, I know; but I haven’t given up 
hope yet ; and I am sure Dick will come back and 
may be help us in a time of need.” 

“ Mary, if I should hear of his death to-day it 
would be the most bles.sed piece of news that 
could come to me in this world.” 

“ Don’t talk like that, Samuel,” pleaded the 
mother ; “ I am not willing to give him up; he is so 
young ; and when he was little he was good and 
kind ; surely, the boy who never forgot to kiss his 
mother good-night, and said his prayers ” — her 
tears were falling now, and she could not go on 
for sobbing — “ Samuel, I heard him praying the very 
night he went away.” 

The sheriff was a hopeless man ; he could say 
nothing ; he kissed his wife and gently wiped the 


THE TRAGEDY OF BRINHWATER. 

• 

tears that were fast falling on the sleeping babe in 
her arms. 

See, Mary, you baptize him in your sorrow. Do . 
not fret, wife ; let us believe that he will grow up to 
be a comfort to us,” said the sheriff, trying to 
smile. 

Oh, I am sure of it, Samuel,” she said. 

The subject of the absent son was seldom 
alluded to between the parents ; they daily read 
despair and apprehension in each other’s eyes, but 
their lips were sealed, and his crime, the forerun- 
ner of worse deeds, perhaps, was never mentioned 
between them. 

The wretched sheriff, urged on by his gnawing 
anxiety, haunted the prison cells. If he is guilty, 
oh that I could get him to confess ! that would be 
some relief, at least,” he cried. As he passed upon 
his rounds the two words “ Circumstantial evi- 
dence,” “ circumstantial evidence,” rang in his ears 
and echoed in his footsteps. 

He pored over the best summaries on the sub- 
ject of such evidence, and he knew how small a 
circumstance ” could condemn a man to death. 
A patch upon the knee leaving its imprint in the 
mud, a mended shoe, betraying a lurking foot-step, 
had led to conviction and condemned men to a 
shameful death. 

In this case there was a long chain of consistent 
evidence, every link of which was perfect. This 
fetter weighed upon Martin, and he dragged it 


THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOWS. 59 

about as the galley slave drags his chain : there 
was no escape from it. 

Indeed the sheriff was fast becoming a mono- 
maniac on the subject .of the innocence of the 
accused. One day he approached the grating where 
Ernest Farrell’s pale face greeted him with a wan 
smile ; for the young man saw in the kindly and 
troubled eyes of the sheriff the soul of a friend 
look forth. 

“ How is your case to-day, sheriff ? ” asked 
Ernest. In his desperation Martin had presented 
a hypothetical case, in which all his doubts and 
fears were confided to young Farrell in behalf of a 
fictitious prisoner. 

“ Well, matters don’t mend much,” the sheriff 
answered, with some reluctance ; ‘‘ the case will 
have to go to trial as it stands, I guess.” 

“ Have you urged the prisoner to confess ? ” 
asked Ernest. 

*^No,” returned Martin, I have not done just 
that, but I am thinking of it,” he added, with a 
beating heart. 

I should urge it upon him, by all means,” 
advised Ernest, to whose upright character this 
seemed the best way out of the trouble. You say 
it will make no difference in the result of the trial ? ” 
No, not if he pleads guilty.” The sheriff turned 
away his head, he could not bear the gaze of those 
beautiful fearless eyes ; not if he’s guilty, Mr. 
Farrell,” he said sadly ; then turning quickly, he 
demanded suddenly, and boldly, as if he feared his 


• a;--. -> ; , 


6 o the tragedy of brinkwater. 

courage would desert him : “ is that what you would 
do if you were in his place.” 

The young man was startled at the unexpected 
question, and involuntarily withdrew from the 
grating. 

Ah, Martin,” he said bitterly, “ I see, you have 
meant me, I had hoped you knew me ; I felt there 
was one man who was my friend, and believed me 
innocent.” 

‘‘ Before God, Ernest Farrell, I do believe you are 
an innocent man,” cried the sheriff passionately. 
‘‘I do'' All pretense was useless now; he had 
committed himself to Ernest by word of mouth, 
who saw though the subterfuge and read the 
sheriff’s whole heart. I have been on the rack 
from the first hour of this dreadful business. I 
can not let it go on without doing all in my power 
to save you.” 

And you begin by wanting me to confess to a 
lie ? ” said Ernest, bitterly. 

No, no, I don’t want you to confess to a lie ; 
but there is no break in this endless chain of evi- 
dence, and — and I thought you might, may be, be 
able to throw some light upon it that would help 
me to — help you.” 

If it were possible for me to throw any light on 
this horrible murder, do you not suppose I would 
gladly and willingly do it ? ” asked young Farrell, 
in a tone of the greatest concern. Do you think 
I have any thing to conceal ? ” 

“ Great heavens ! what do I mean ? am I losing 


■• • ‘ i^)[ " _ . ' ■ ’ , ' . ■ ■ 


THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOVVS. 6i 

my reason ? do I expect this man to criminate his 
own mother ? ” exclaimed the sheriff mentally. 
For in his determination to save Ernest Farrell, 
and failing to find any other theory of the murder, 
the sheriff had been forced to the conclusion that 
Agnes Farrell was guilty of, or at least accessory 
to, the crime. Her conduct from the first suspicion 
of the murder, and through every step of the ordeal 
since, had been that of a guilty woman ; or one 
on whose soul weighed a dreadful secret of crime. 
She had given up all hope from the moment of the 
discovery of the murder. Since her imprisonment 
her despair had been complete. She asked con- 
stantly news of her son, whom she seemed to think 
was far removed from her, though, in fact, their 
cells were but a narrow space apart. She asked 
the sheriff daily how he looked : if he ate and slept 
well, and if his bed was comfortable. 

She thought that being a woman she might have 
been favored, and that the chair, rug, and table had 
been given her in consideration of her sex. She 
asked continually what day of the week it was, for 
she seemed unable to mark the flight of time. 

It grows dark so soon here,’' she said, ‘‘ it 
seems a great many nights since we came.” She 
paced her cell constantly and cared for neither 
food nor sleep. I never see them do that when 
they have a clear conscience,” thought the sheriff, 
who watched his prisoner with the most intense 
solicitude. Books and papers lay on her table 
untouched. When Martin called her attention to 


s 




62 the tragedy of brinkwater, 

them, and begged her to compose herself by read- 
ing, Yes, yes,’* she answered excitedly, ‘^some- 
time, sometime.” 

One morning the sheriff brought her a nosegay 
of honeysuckle, a flower of which she was passion- 
ately fond. “ Take them away ! ” she cried, “ they 
will wither in this unhappy air : ” their .odor 
brought to her the days she now looked back upon 
as happy. 

“ But you may find a letter within them,” said the 
sheriff, who blushed to remember that he had 
opened and read (as was his duty) the little un- 
sealed note which Virgin Grey had wrapped in them; 
the spirit of which was as sweet and tender as the fra- 
grance of the flowers that inclosed it. “ Give it to 
me,” she said, making no movement to touch the 
flowers the sheriff had laid on the table. He 
opened the nosegay and gave her the missive. 
She took it and ran her eyes over it mechanically. 
The words, so trustful, and soothing, conveyed no 
comfort to the distracted heart of Agnes Farrell. 
She continued her walk back and forth, dropping 
the paper as she went. 

Martin picked it up, and carried the flowers 
and note to Ernest. 

“ God pity and help my poor mother ; what can 
I do to make her agony more tolerable ? ” he said. 

The sheriff whispered a sentence in the ear of 
the young man. It electrified him like a message 
of hope. 

“ Dare I ! May I ! ” he cried. 


THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOWS. 63 

To-morrow night,” replied the sheriff. 

Why not to-night ? ” demanded Ernest, 
eagerly. 

Because, I have important business to transact 
to-night,” the sheriff answered. 

But tell her I am to come, at least,” said 
Ernest. 

Agnes Farrell received the promise of her son’s 
visit with seemieg indifference, but a visible shud- 
der shook her frame. The things of time and 
sense had lost their hold upon her. She lived in 
the light of but one dreadful day, and all her 
energies were strained to wait for it and meet it. 

The following morning Sheriff Martin went to 
Brinkwater ; he was walking at a rapid pace through 
the village-green, with the pre-occupied air of one 
whose thoughts are turned inward. He met Denby 
whom he was about to pass without recognition, 
when the latter’s cheery “Good-mornin’, sheriff; fine 
growin’ weather,” arrested him. 

Ah, Denby, is that you ? ” said the sheriff. “ I 
shall want you probably. I am on my way to the 
church-yard to look after Joseph Farrell’s grave. I 
promised his brother to do so, and I may need you 
to identify it.” 

Couldn’t Ernest Farrell trust me that fer ? ” 
questioned the grave-digger, sorrowfully. 

Yes, Denby, he would trust you for that, and 
for far more I am sure, but Mr. Farrell is in prison, 
and you can not reach him, while I, you know, see 
him every day, and can give him what little comfort 




64 TBB TRAGEDY OF BRINKVVATER. 

there is in knowing that his brother’s body has been 
properly buried.” As the two men neared the 
church-yard, Bill Baylis came hurrying up to over- 
take them, with his hat in his hand and mopping his 
red face with a redder handkerchief. Good- 
mornin’, sheriff ; mornin’, Jim. I jist was a wantin’ to 
know if it’s all reg’lar about that there coffun ? ” 

What do you mean ? ” asked the sheriff with a . 
frown. 

AVell, who’s to pay the bill, that^s what I mean,” 
replied Baylis, doggedly. 

The estate is able and ready to pay all debts at 
the proper time,” answered the sheriff, in a tone 
that meant there was nothing more to be said. 

It was a high-priced casket,” said the joiner, 
dropping into professional parlance, “ and I paid 
cash down for it.” 

And you will get cash down for it,” growled 
the sheriff, as he strode away. 

This piece of grateful information so mollified 
the fears of the mercenary joiner, that, taking off 
his hat, he made a sweeping bow, and with a broad 
smile irradiating his ruddy visage remarked that, 

‘‘ It was a beautiful day, and as sparklin’ as a new 
varnished coffun.” 

The sheriff and grave-digger entered the church- 
yard : the latter leading the way to the murdered 
man’s grave, which was in a spot remote from the 
family plot, either because the lot was filled, or be- 
cause, having come to a violent end, those in charge 
of the funeral thought it irregular ” to have 


THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOWS. 65 

Joseph Farrell buried beside the bones of his fathers 
until after the trial, when a more ceremonious 
funeral could be held. 

So I shall have to tell Ernest Farrell that his 
brother is buried in Potter’s Field,” said the sheriff 
in a tone of surprise. 

Well, not exactly that, sheriff ; you see I hed 
nothin’ to do with ^locatin’ the grave,” replied 
Denby apologetically ; I was told to dig it here, 
and I did.” 

Of course you are not to be held responsible, 
Denby, for that.” The sheriff’s tone was concilia- 
tory, for he knew he had an ally in this humble 
man. 

Fm willin’ to bear my sheer of the whole blamed 
business, if I could only holp them folks up yon- 
der,” said the grave digger, as he made a movement 
of his head in the direction of Marshmeadows. 
‘‘ Fve neither wife, nor chick, nor child, and diggin’ 
graves ain’t a payin’, or a cheerful callin’. I’m ready 
to take Ernest Farrell’s place any day to save him.” 

‘‘You are willing to help them?” asked the 
sheriff, looking keenly into the downcast face of the 
grave-digger. 

“ Yes, because Ernest Farrell ^could no more a 
done that murder than I could a done it, an’ he’s 
young and oughter have a chance, he’s better 
drilled for it than I am, and there’s his mother — ” 
the grave-digger stopped short. • 

“ Have you any reason for believing him inno- 
cent ? ” the sheriff asked tentatively. 




66 the tragedy of brinkwater. 

When it comes to reasons, sheriff,” said Denby, 
rubbing his forehead in a meditative way, ‘‘ I don’t 
know as I can jist reason it out ; but it’s perfectly 
clear to my mind that Ernest Farrell couldn’t 
do it.” 

Do your convictions of innocence include his 
mother ? ” 

Somebody done that murder, sure, and certain, 
but heven’ nothin’ but my own lights to go by, it’s 
not for me to say who did it.” 

The sheriff ordered Denby to plant a stout board 
at either end of the new-made grave, and mark the 
initials of the dead man thereon, until further 
orders. While they were still talking the shrill 
sound of a whistle splintered the summer air, and 
both men stopped and turned their heads in the di- 
rection whence the sound came. 

“ It’s that scarecrow, Artey,” said the grave-dig- 
ger, as the idiot son of Martha Blunt leaped over a 
flat tombstone behind which he had been hiding. 

He prowls around here like a speret ; he don’t 
know what fear is, I believe ; day and night’s all 
the same to him.” 

The boy approached fearlessly, pushing up with 
the back of his hand the flopping brim of his welh 
worn hat, and the tangled mass of hair beneath it, 
“ Here’s the man thet’ll put you in jail,” said Den- 
by, with feigned fierceness, thinking to frighten the 
boy, who was often intrusive, into good manners. 

Will he put the pigeons in jail, too ? ” asked 
Artey, not understanding the threat and grinning up 


THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOWS, 67 

into the sheriff’s face, who, attracted by something 
familiar in the idiot’s aspect, was intently watching 
him. 

The pigeons don’t roll in the church-yard grass 
and take their meals off the tombstones : the pig- 
eons will stay where they air, as long as they behave 
themselves.” 

Then I’ll stay with the pigeons,” said Artey. 

And where do the pigeons stay ? ” asked Mar- 
tin. The idiot darted a look of alarm at the sheriff, 
and then turned on the grave-digger a piteous face. 

He don’t want ’em, Artey,” said his friend sooth- 
ingly ; they’re oyer to Farrell’s,” with a look at the 
sheriff, and a nod in the direction of the home- 
stead. 

They’re my brothers,” pleaded the idiot. I 
love them and they talk to me.” 

What do they say, Artey ? ” asked the grave- 
digger, with a pleased intention to draw the boy 
out. 

They say,” replied the idiot, melting into a low, 
soft, musical laugh, ‘‘ that the grave-digger’s first 
cousin to the owl ; ” he made a deep, guttural 
sound, an exact imitation of a pigeon’s coo ; then 
he drew forth the whistle and blew a shrill blast. 

Is that the way you call the pigeons ? ” asked 
the sheriff of the boy. 

“ Thet’s what he does it with,” Denby answered 
for the boy, who seeing a great yellow butterfly 
sail past him, bounded after it swinging his hat, 
in \\Qt pursuit, 



68 the tragedy of brinkwater. 

Yes,” continued Denby, in reply to a question of 
the sheriff’s ; “ he’s harmless enough ; though the 
devil do get into him sometimes ; he rode a horse 
to death, they say. I think it’s when the moon fulls 
he’s at his wildest. He’s nothing but a child, 
either; he lost his whistle awhile back, and mourned 
so about it I had no peace till I bought him 
another : and yet he makes wise sort o’ remarks, 
too, sometimes.” 

For instance, that one about the owl and the 
grave-digger, Jim ? ” said the sheriff facetiously. 

Now I call that un kind o’ wild, sheriff, but he 
has a cute way o’, flyin’ the track when you try to 
pin him down to any thing.” 

How old is he ? ” asked the sheriff ; for like all 
half-witted people Artey bore in his face the expres- 
sion of perpetual youth. 

I don’ no,” replied Denby, I reckon he’ sold 
enough to vote,” chuckling at his own wit. 

The two men separated, with an injunction from 
the sheriff to Denby to remember his instructions 
in regard to Joseph Farrell’s grave. 

They say,” continued the grave-digger, for 
being a lonely man he was given to audible 
soliloquy, that grass won’t grow on a murdered 
man’s grave ; but I’ll keep that poor devil’s grave 
green, ef I have to paint it.” 

Hi * H< * H« H< 

The days flowed on, as though no great crime 
had stained the peaceful annals of Brinkwater, 



THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOWS. 69 

and men and women had long since resumed their 
customary vocations. Upon the great house, tow- 
ering above its neighbors, men looked with sad- 
dened hearts, as one looks upon the charred 
and blackened ruins of a conflagration. Its smoke- 
less chimneys, its closed doors, the silence and 
sense of desolation that hung about it, the awful 
crime committed under its roof, made of what had 
been the pride and glory of the village, its terror, 
and reproach. When the white radiance of the full 
moon smote its windows, the villagers fancied they 
saw lights moving within, and the story that the 
house was haunted grew and took firm root in the 
minds of the superstitious rustics. Belated chil- 
dren, in search of a truant cow, whistled loudly, and 
flew with fearful steps past the solitary house ; the 
homeward bound lover, forgetful of the lapse of 
time, quickened his pace, as the clock struck twelve, 
afraid to look behind him lest he see a horrid 
specter ; and even in broad daylight men and 
women shuddered and turned aside as they neared 
the dreadful spot. The Sunday congregation, long 
lingering after service among the church-yard 
graves, discussed the murder sitting on the tombs. 

‘‘ I told ye so,” said Betsey Driggs, voicing the 
whole crew of village female prophets, pride alius 
goes afore a fall, as I’ve lived long enough to know. 
Not but as there’s plenty o’ folks older ’n me,” re- 
membering her estate of spinsterhood, whose date 
was uncertain and indefinite, “and I knew Agnes 
Farrell’s day would come, but I didn’t expect it 


70 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 

would come in sich an awful manner : it’s amazin’ 
to think of folks that never knowed work, or want ; 
that rode in their kerridges, and wore their silks and 
satins and gewgaws, goin’ to jail, and bein’ tried 
fur murder.” 

‘‘ I should think Andrew Farrell would raise up 
in his grave-clothes and bear witness agin’ her,” 
said Jim Denby, whose figures of speech were col- 
ored by his profession of grave-digger. 

‘‘There’s no need of any more witnessin',” an- 
swered Betsey Driggs ; “ it’s done, and we all know 
who did it, and what it was done fer.” 

“The old man druv the fust nail into Joseph 
Farrell’s coffin, when he made that air will,” came 
from Bill Baylis, the village joiner. 

“ Well, he’s got to do the sufferin’ for it,” said 
David Fry, the local preacher, and a firm believer 
in future, endless punishment. 

“ I’d ruther take his chances, than his widder’s, 
when you’re countin’ on sufferin’, David. She’s 
got to suffer, but there’ll be a way fer Ernest Far- 
rell out of it ; that lad ’ll never hang for murder.” 

“ You’re sittin’ up for prosecutor, jedge and jury 
all in one, Denby ; I don’t know’s the Lord’s en- 
lightened you mor’n the rest of us. I wouldn’t 
go thet far afore the trial. Ernest Farrell’s spunky 
enough, when his blood’s up, and they do say there 
was an awful sight of provoke.” 

“ See here, David Fry,” broke in the grave-dig- 
ger, “yer a-talkin’ as if young Farrell, that never 
done any harm in his life, was a dipped and dyed 




THE SHERIFF OF MARSHMEADOWS, 71 

sinner ; sich things have to grow, they don't come to 
hand ready-made.” 

‘‘ Thet’s jist where you're mistakin', Jim ; they do 
come ready-made,” exclaimed Fry eagerly, who 
was a believer in the doctrine of original sin, and 
never let an opportunity pass to give his testimony 
to the truth. 

“ Well, you’re not a-goin' to git me into no argy- 
ment,” said Denby, who knew his antagonist of old, 
as he slipped from the tombstone, and dusted the 
seat of his pantaloons. The grave-digger moved 
off in the direction of Joseph Farrell’s new made 
grave, of which he had charge. 

He walked around the mound of earth, pressing 
the clayey soil with his stout boots. This was the 
first murdered man’s grave Denby had ever dug; he 
had a sort of professional pride in the fact ; it con- 
nected him with the important event in a perfectly 
respectable way and increased his consequence in 
his own eyes and those of the villagers. He looked 
about him and found the church-yard deserted : no 
one now remained but the idiot son of Martha 
Blunt, who was playing among the graves and 
blowing thistle-down, which he pursued with the 
most childish delight ; as he ran he fell sprawling at 
the feet of the grave-digger. 

Mind what you are about, Artey ! ” cried 
Denby ; you’d better git up and go home.” 

‘‘Is this your home?” the boy asked, peering 
into Denby’s face, as he lay on the grass. 

“ In a manner it is ; I take keer o’ these here 


72 the TE AGEEV OF BRINKWATER, 

graves, and I want no foolin' around 'em, 
either." 

The boy drew forth a small whistle and blew a 
shrill blast. 

‘‘ None o' yer Gabriel trumptin' round here, or 
I’ll take that whistle away from ye," said the grave- 
digger, making a dive, as though he would snatch 
the bauble. 

The idiot sprang to his feet, and ran away, and 
was soon blowing a defiant challenge at a safe dis- 
tance from capture. 

He’ll die in his bed, at a good old age," sighed 
the grave-digger, ‘‘ while them as hes their wits, and 
an excuse for livin', 'ill be cut off like ///;;/," with a 
motion of his head in the direction of the new-made 
grave. 

As Betsey Driggs had said, “There was nothing 
more to be done fur Joseph Farrell. And it would 
a been comfortin’ to him if he could a been present 
at his own funeral to know what a han’some corpse 
he made." 

The whole village had turned out to the funeral : 
the officiating clergyman had warned his flock 
against the love of riches which eat into the soul 
like rust ; the village schoolmaster “ had pointed a 
moral," with the example of young Farrell’s crime, 
and foolish mothers now began — so soon do mor- 
tals pass from the familiar to the monstrous — to 
frighten naughty children with the headless ghost 
of Joseph Farrell. 


CHAPTER VII. 


A NIGHT VISIT. 

V IRGIN GREY bore the calamity that had over- 
taken her dearest friends in .the spirit that 
walks in the light of youth and hope. Their in- 
nocence was a matter of course ; the terrible ac- 
cusation that hung over them ; the ignominy of 
their position (and she included herself in all the 
doubt and shame), was something that must be 
endured until the time should come — and that 
it surely would come, she never doubted — for their 
final and triumphant vindication. Instead of an 
added burden, she must be a prop on which the 
heavy ladened hearts of her friends should find 
sure and unfailing support. She brought all the 
qualities of a devout and heroic soul to sustain 
her in bearing the weight laid upon her young 
shoulders. It became her duty to do all in 
her power to .aid her stricken and helpless 
friends ; and she never faltered in the sacred 
trust. She went about her daily tasks as usual, 
tliough her cheek was paler, and her step less elastic; 
but she bore herself with the same calm dignity 


-/ 






74 TfiE 7^ RAG ED Y OF BRINK WAl'ER. 

that had ever marked her conduct. No curious 
gossip dared to penetrate the sheath of reserve in 
which she incased herself. She was pointed out 
to strangers as the girl whose lover was in jail for 
murder, and every step was followed by vulgar, 
prying eyes ; every act discussed by hard, un- 
sympathizing tongues. She knew and felt it all ; 
but for the dear sake of those in whose sufferings 
she bore an equal part, she kept an undaunted heart; 
an unquenchable courage. Her class in Sunday- 
school, the duty of teaching which she resumed 
after the summer vacation was ended, never found 
her absent. The little maidens scanned their 
teacher with curious awe on the first Sunday, but 
when the lesson was gone over with the same gentle 
patience, and nothing was omitted, or nothing for- 
gotten, they gradually recovered confidence, and 
looked into Virgin’s calm face with innocent, fear- 
less eyes. 

It was her habit to review the work of the past 
lessons, and when the class, in reciting in concert 
the Decalogue, came to the sixth commandment, 
each voice faltered and broke down at the last 
dreadful word that now had a new and terrible 
signficance for them. 

“ Thou shalt not kill,'' repeated Virgin in a stead- 
fast voice, and each little tongue took up the words 
anew and uttered them boldly. In church, the 
entrance of the solitary girl was looked for with 
eager curiosity ; heads were turned, and eyes 
pursued her until she reached her pew, and when 


A NIGHT VISIT. 


75 


she bowed her fair young head in prayer, many, 
neglecting their own devotions, wondered what un- 
usual form of petition she offered. 

From the moment of the commitment of Agnes 
Farrell and her son, Martha Blunt had shown a 
strange, nervous anxiety. 

“ It’s her testimony workin’ on her,” explained 
Betsey Driggs, when the village gossips wondered 
at the housekeeper’s restlessness : “ her tongue’s 
the halter thet’ll hang Agnes Farrell. I shouldn’t 
wonder if she knew more’n she told, neither. She 
didn’t kerry off the key to that back door for 
nothin’. I reckon ’twould a bean easy enough to a 
came back, if Agnes Farrell had wanted her ; 
they’re both in the same boat. I’ll warrant ye.” 

But, notwithstanding Miss Driggs’ malicious in- 
sinuations, the general opinion of Brinkwater ex- 
onerated Martha Blunt from knowledge of, or com- 
plicity in, the murder of Joseph Farrell. It was 
shown that she stayed all night at the house of her 
aunt, and was seen by several persons returning 
home in the morning : besides, the woman’s reputa- 
tion for honesty and truthfulness was so good, that 
as Jim Denby said, “ Marthy Blunt wpuld a testi- 
fied agin herself, if there had a bean any thing to 
testify to.” 

‘‘You’d a sed thet about Agnes Farrell onct,” 
returned Betsey Driggs. 

“ I’ll say this much for Agnes Farrell now, thet 
she’d never hev hit a dead enemy.” 

“ Oh, no,” replied Miss Driggs, scornfully, “ she’d 


l(> 7'HE TRACED V OF BRINkWATER. 

ruther take her game alive ; the hitten’ would a 
done some good, then.” 

“ It’s a strange Providence thet punishes the de- 
servin’ and lets the wicked go quit,” said Denby, in 
an aside to his neighbor. 

“ I wonder if Jim Denby’s goin’ to be allowed to 
live long enough to dig all the graves in Brink- 
water church-yard ? ” inquired Miss Driggs of her 
neighbor. 

No, Betsey, he’ll never live to dig your’n ; the 
oldest residenter ’ll be in glory long afore thefs 
needed, and you’ll be a bald-headed, tpothless 

warnin’ to the risin’ generation ” 

See here, now,” interposed David Fry, whose 
calling and gentleness of nature had conferred 
upon him the character of peacemaker, see here, 
neighbors : bad blood and hot words has led to one 
murder in Brinkwater, they say ; let the awful 
example warn ye all to live together in brotherly 
love, kindly affectioned one t’ward another.” 

‘‘ The Scripturs don’t say nothin’ about bein’ 
kindly affectioned t’ward hedgehogs,” came from 
Betsey Driggs, as she moved away to escape Denby’s 
parting shot that hedgehogs was respectable 
animals compared to porky-pines which let their 
stinging splints fly around promiscuous.” It fell 
harmless on the air, however, and did not reach the 
ears of the village virago. 

If Martha Blunt, as Betsey Driggs averred, knew, 
or suspected, more than she disclosed at the inquest, 
she was wise enough to keep her own counsel. That 


A NIGHT VISIT, 


11 


something preyed upon the housekeeper’s mind 
which she would not, or could not divulge, those 
who knew her best believed ; and thus accounted 
for the marked change in her behavior. For a short 
time she remained with the people who had charge 
of her son, but the innocent and incoherent prattle 
of Artey now seemed to annoy her, and from hav- 
ing been always patient and kind, she grew irritable 
and harsh toward him. She declared, at last, that 
she could remain idle no longer. She packed her 
trunks and boxes, and after making arrangements 
for the care and maintenance of her son, she set 
out for Marshmeadows, in quest of service. Mar- 
tha Blunt’s character for honesty and efficiency had 
preceded her and made it an easy matter for the 
housekeeper of Mrs. Farrell to find a situation 
suited to her wants, but she gave up her place at 
the end of the month, on hearing that Sheriff Mar- 
tin was looking for an elderly woman to take 
charge of his house, as his wife’s whole at- 
tention was now absorbed by the new infant. 

When she found herself under the same roof 
that sheltered her former mistress, Martha Blunt 
recovered, in some degree, her former serenity. She 
manifested, at first, no undue interest in the pris- 
oners, and was very reticent when questioned about 
the affairs of the family, even by those who avowed 
themselves friendly, but she felt no little comfort in 
preparing the food that nourished them, and be- 
stowed more loving care in its preparation, than 
she had ever done in the most painstaking days of 


78 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINK WATER, 

her housekeeping. She replaced the coarse, strong 
crockery used in the prison by money taken 
from her own purse, with the most delicate and 
beautiful ware to be found in Marshmeadows, and 
fearing the curiosity of the sheriff’s wife, Martha 
told her it was her own property and she knew 
Mrs. Farrell could never drink her tea out of a 
Delft cup. But it did not take the housekeeper long 
to discover that both Sheriff Martin and his wife 
bore no ill-will to the prisoners, and that the anxiety 
and sense of responsibility that preyed upon her 
was shared, at least, by Samuel Martin. 

She soon proved herself indispensable to the sher- 
iff’s household. Mrs. Martin’s time and thoughts 
were wholly occupied with the young infant : and 
the sheriff’s official duties often called him from 
home, so that Martha Blunt had the housekeeping 
entirely under her charge, as well as at times the 
care of the prisoners. She was interested in, and 
absorbed by, her new duties ; she seemed hardly to 
give her son a thought, but she knew the harmless 
natural was in safe keeping, and, though devotedly 
attached to his mother, was only happy when amid 
his familiar haunts, from which he never wandered. 

When the day’s work was over, and Martha’s 
time was her own, she found her way to the home 
of Virgin Grey, whose greatest comfort she was in 
these sad days. The housekeeper was in almost 
constant communication with Agnes and Ernest 
Farrell, and through her Virgin heard from them 
daily. 


A NIGHT VISIT. 


79 


To Virgin’s anxious questions she replied : 
“ They are just as comfortable as they can be, to — 
be — in — jail, you know. Sheriff Martin had 
the cells newly floored and whitewashed. I, 
myself, carried a rocking-chair and rug to Mrs. 
Farrell, which, with the nice cot and table the sheriff 
put in, makes it quite home-like,” said the house- 
keeper, in a desperate attempt to make the best of 
what was so bad. “ And,” she continued, with 
some pride, Mrs. Farrell takes her tea and 
toast off of as good china as Marshmeadows affords. 
I get her meals with my own hands, too, and that 
goes for something.” 

My poor Ernest ! has he been made — comfort- 
able — too ? ” asked Virgin, brokenly. 

Yes, he has the same attention, and comforts, 
and plenty of books, beside.” 

‘^Oh, Martha ! ” exclaimed Virgin, looking into 
the woman’s sympathizing face with piteous, tear- 
ful eyes, “ tell me how he looks, how he bears 
it ! ” 

Well, he is composed, and bears up for your 
sake, and his mother’s. You know it is his way to 
make the best of every thing. I think he has a 
good hope now of acquittal. Sheriff Martin is 
working hard for it, I believe ; but that’s between 
you and me. Ernest Farrell is pale and sad 
enough. I think I never saw him look so hand- 
some. When he comes to the grating — ” 

“ Oh, my God, how can I bear it ! ” sobbed 
Virgin beneath her breath. The housekeeper 


8o THE TEA GET V OF BRINKVVATER. 


turned and saw the girl with her hands pressed to 
her bosom, and eyes streaming with tears. 

They are no more guilty than I am, or you are,” 
cried Martha, passionately, clasping the quivering 
young form in her strong embrace. 

It is not a question with us of their guilt, Mar- 
tha ; but some one is guilty, and who the guilty 
person is, you and I, and all who love them, must 
do our utmost to discover.” 

I have racked my brains till I am weary and 
worn with thinking, and I get no nearer the truth,” 
said the housekeeper. 

Would it be possible,” asked Virgin, after a 
moment’s reflection, to enter the house at Brink- 
water ? ” 

It had occurred to her that a visit to the house 
might reveal something to one intimate with the 
place. 

There is a way,” replied the housekeeper, look- 
ing uneasily around her. I have the key to the 
rear door.” She opened her dress, disclosing a 
strong, brass key hung to a metal chain which she 
wore about her neck. I locked that door with my 
own hands, and when the key was asked for it was 
missing, but I knew where to find it.” 

Virgin Grey grasped the hand that held the key 
eagerly exclaiming, Will you go with me ? ” 

I will,” answered Martha, ‘‘but it must be at 
night.” 

“ What night ? ” demanded Virgin, trembling 
^vith excitement. 


A NIGHT VISIT. 


8i 


You can fix the time ; any night will suit me.” 

Then let it be at once ; there is not a moment 
to lose.” 

But there are ways and means to be taken into 
account,” said the prudent Martha ; “ two women 
can not go a-foot, four miles on a dark night, do 
any thing and get back to Marshmeadows before 
daylight.” 

** We must plan for it, then,” suggested Virgin. 

^‘Yes,” returned Martha; ‘‘there must be a 
horse, and gig, and ” 

“ No, not a driver,” exclaimed Virgin. “ I will 
drive.” 

“Well, that will be better ; say to-morrow night, 
then. I will speak for the gig. I want to visit 
Artey, and that shall be an excuse ; we do not care 
to be seen ; we are watched, you know, and it must 
be after dark.” 

“ Ah, that is a small matter if we can accomplish 
our object.” 

“ But that may defeat it,” said Martha. 

“ Then we can not be too cautious. I shall be 
ready and waiting, early, Martha.” 

The following nigTit was accordingly agreed 
upon by the two women, and the housekeeper be- 
spoke the gig, as she had promised. It was a 
moonless night, with just starlight enough to make 
driving, for the two novices, practicable. When 
her duties were over for the evening, Martha 
appeared punctually at the hour agreed upon, and 
found the vehicle waiting, and Virgin impatient. 



82 the TE AGEEV OF BRINKWATER. 

Did you think to bring candles, and matches ? ” 
asked the younger woman. 

I have forgot nothing,” replied the house- 
keeper, and the sooner we are off the better.” 

Martha Blunt was a short, stout, square-built 
woman, with a resolute face ; her hair was worn 
back from her forehead ; a stiff-brimmed hat, stand- 
ing collar, and black-stuff dress, increased the mas- 
culine cast of her appearance. 

I only need a beard to pass for a man,” she 
said, as she saw her reflection in Virgin’s mirror. 

We will both be manful to-night,” replied Vir- 
gin Grey, and lion-hearted, until we deliver our 
friends from this dreadful entanglement.” 

The road to Brinkwater lay through an open 
tract of country, for the most part, with but a short 
stretch of woodland, and the two women drove 
fearlessly along, talking in low tones of their 
errand. 

‘‘ Listen ! ” exclaimed Virgin, when they had 
reached the shadow of the wood, and the beating 
of a horse’s hoofs struck on her ear. Some one is 
coming behind us.” 

They are hardly going to Brinkwater on the 
same business,” replied Martha Blunt quietly ; nev- 
ertheless, she gave the horse a sharp cut with the 
whip, which set him off at a pace that soon out- 
stripped the horseman behind them, whoever it 
migth be, whether friend or foe; for two women 
alone in the unusual position of a night-journey 
tnrojgh the country, on an errand that meant so 


A NIGHT VISIT. 


83 


much, each with a dread fear at her heart, were 
less likely to think of a friend than of an enemy. 

They reached Brinkwater without any adven- 
ture, however, and found the little hamlet locked in 
sleep ; every light was out, and they moved slowly 
and cautiously through the deserted streets with- 
out encountering so much as a baying cur or a 
belated villager. The homestead once reached, all 
the rest seemed easy enough. The great stone, 
ivy-covered mansion loomed black against the 
starry sky ; there was not a sound heard save the 
sighing of the night-breeze through the pines with 
that mournful reminder of the sea, and the lapping 
of the lake upon the beach. 

It looks as though it were dead,” said Virgin, 
with a sigh ; for the last time she had visited the 
place, it was a fete-day, and the house and grounds 
were illuminated,' and gay voices and music filled 
the air. 

Martha Blunt did not stop for retrospection ; 
she fastened the horse and gig in a secluded spot 
and at once went to the rear of the house, followed 
by Virgin, and without any difficulty the house- 
keeper unlocked the door, and the two women en- 
tered. Not until they were within the house and 
had closed the door did they dare to strike a light ; 
and when Martha Blunt had lighted a candle from 
the store she brought, it revealed the pallid faces 
of the two fearful women, who involuntarily seized 
each other by the hand, and for some moments 
stood irresolute. Unarmed, alone at night, in an isQ- 


■■ ' ■ V ' ■ 






84 THE TRAGEDY OE BRINKWATER. 

lated and deserted house, in which a mysterious mur- 
der had so recently been committed, was a situation 
trying enough to the nerves of the strongest man ; 
and when she heard a sound of softly-stealing foot- 
steps outside, the terror of Virgin was extreme. 

^‘We have been followed,” she gasped, under 
her breath. Martha Blunt locked the door noise- 
lessly on the inside, then the sound of the footsteps 
ceased; and persuading themselves that the noise 
had come from some prowling domestic animal, 
reassured, but watchful, they went about their 
quest. 

The doors and windows below were carefully 
scanned ; every bolt and lock was examined with 
the most scrupulous care ; then they descended to 
the cellar, and inspected the heavily grated win- 
dows ; the blood curdled in their veins, for an 
instant, when the fiery eye-balls of a predatory cat 
glared at them through the grating. Convinced by 
this encounter that they were right in their 
conjectures about the footsteps heard before, 
they ended their scrutiny of the cellar fasten- 
ings, which they found had been untouched, 
and mounted the stairs again to continue 
their search. On entering the library they found 
the room in the greatest disorder : drawers, 
desks and cabinets had been opened, and their con- 
tents were strewn about the floor. There had been 
a search evidently for valuable papers, or perhaps 
the lonely house had been entered by thieves in 
quest of plunder. This scene naturally excited the 


A NIGHT VISIT. 


^5 


nerves of the already over-wrought women. If 
it was thieves, they would have rifled the dining- 
room,” said Martha Blunt, thinking of the silver ; 

let us go and see.” There nothing was disturbed, 
and the housekeeper readily conjectured who it was 
that had visited the library ; but not wishing to 
further distress Virgin by telling her that Benedict 
Strong had been there before them, she made no 
comment. They went up stairs, each bearing a 
candle, whose feeble light barely made the darkness 
visible. At the door of one dread chamber they 
paused. 

“ Let us leave it till the last,” gasped Virgin, 
whose courage was inking under the chill horror 
the place inspired. 

It must be entered first or last,” answered 
Martha, turning, however, and leading the way 
across the ante-room to Ernest’s chamber. In this 
apartment, sacred to the privacy of her lover, the 
fears of Virgin were calmed. Here all was beauty, 
order and peace. The room was filled with the 
objects dear to a refined and gentle taste ; an open 
book upon the table, a half-smoked rheerschaum, a 
flower drooping in its glass (her flower !) a sheet of 
paper on his desk, with a pen thrown across it, and 
bearing only the date of “ June twentieth.” It 
seemed to her as though Ernest had just left the 
room, which was still redolent of his beloved pres- 
ence. The young girl looked about her tenderly 
and sorrowfully, her eyes brimming with tears, as 
. she thought of that bright head, which had so lately 


86 the tragedy of BRINKWATER, 

pressed the yielding pillows of this luxurious bed, 
now eclipsed in the gloom of a shameful prison. 
She stood motionless, hesitating, ashamed to even 
seem to intrude on the privacy of an absent friend. 
AVhile Martha Blunt was carefully examining bolts 
and locks. Virgin thought of the little escritoire, 
the key of which still hung in the lock. Might 
there not be papers here that would be valuable to 
her lover ? The desk had been overlooked by the 
searchers of the library, being in the embrasure of a 
bay-window, and screened by a portilre. Virgin 
seated herself at the desk, and examined every 
drawer and compartment. She found letters, 
receipts, college themes, and^such various papers 
as a man accumulates in the course of months, and 
she was just leaving the desk, after making a com- 
pact bundle of its contents, when her eye was 
caught by a letter that remained in the back part 
of the drawer, the seal of which had adhered to 
the velvet lining ; she had some difficulty in 
detaching it, but without any scrutiny, she placed 
it in the bundle with the other papers, intending to 
put them in the hands of Ernest Farrell on her 
return to Marshmeadows. 

The tall cheval mirror reflected the slender, wil- 
lowy grace of Virgin, as she stood waiting on the 
movements of Martha, in her close-fitting, gray 
walking dress, with a cap of blue velvet on her 
charming head ; but though her gaze was fixed 
upon the mirror, she saw not the sweet image pic- 
tured on its surface ; but in the depths of the glass, 


A NIGHT VISIT 


^7 


as ill water, she saw the face of her lover look 
forth, his mournful eyes directed toward her. 
The pathetic picture wavered a moment, and then 
vanished in a mist of tears. The sudden slamming 
of a door startled her from the reverie into which 
she had fallen, and Martha Blunt’s abrupt exclama- 
tion recalled her to the present with fresh alarm. 
They knew now to a certainty that some one 
beside themselves was in the house. Thinking 
only of themselves, for the moment, they stood 
with all their souls in their ears, listening. There 
was no further sound, however, and taking courage' 
of despair they went with timid haste across the 
hall into the ante-room. Virgin shuddered as she 
passed the^ chamber where Joseph Farrell had met 
his death. I can not enter that room,” she said, 
with an appealing look at Martha. 

‘‘ We came here for that purpose,” returned the 
housekeeper, but we will go into the attic and 
examine that first.” She felt the same reluctance 
that possessed Virgin to go into this room, but 
from a very different feeling. They ascended the 
steep flight of stairs that led to the attic, which 
covered the entire area of the house, looking care- 
fully at each window. Martha Blunt then mounted 
the ladder that led to the scuttle opening on the 
roof. There was not a glass missing or a bolt 
moved ; the scuttle door was fastened from the 
inside by a heavy staple and hook which were 
immovable from rust and long disuse. They then 
crossed the length of the attic, and reached the 


88 the tragedy of brinkwater, 

dove-cote, which formed a part of the kitchen 
garret, and was divided from the garret proper by 
a partition of boards. From lines and hooks were 
suspended clothing of various kind, which the 
draught from the open attic door swayed in a 
ghostly manner, and when from within the dove- 
cote footsteps were distinctly heard, as in rapid 
approach, the two frightened women, unable to bear 
a further strain upon their already over-taxed 
nerves, rushed back through the attic, and precipi- 
tately fled down the narrow steps ; but just as they 
reached the door below, which had been left ajar, 
they saw a bright light shining in the hall, and a 
moment later, a man opened the door of Joseph 
Farrell’s room and stepped into the ante-room. 
There was just an instant in which the gleam of a 
pistol was seen in the hands of a powerful man, 
when human nature, or woman nature, could bear 
no more, and the two terrified women sank shriek- 
ing in a heap on the stairway. The man with the 
lantern advanced to the door of the attic stairs, and 
swung it wide open. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


WHAT THE SHERIFF DISCOVERED. 

T he important business that occupied Sheriff 
Martin, on the evening of the thirtieth of July, 
was a night ride to Brinkwater. He had determ- 
ined to visit the Farrell homestead in person, at 
night, to investigate the premises in pursuit of his 
belief in a theory of the murder that should exoner- 
ate Ernest Farrell. 

He left home early in the evening, on a pretense 
of professional business, and trotted around the 
neighborhood of Marshmeadows, doing up some 
little chores," as he told the people he met, until 
night fell, when he struck into the main road 
that led direct to Brinkwater. 

As he rode along in the dusk, he saw, a dozen 
rods in advance of him, a horse and gig jogging 
along, and he knew by the jerking and wavering 
motion of the vehicle, that a woman’s hand held 
the reins. Not wishing to overtake what he sup- 
posed were gossiping towns-people, as soon as he 
reached the shadow of the strip of woods that lay 


90 the tragedy of BRhYKWATER. 

between the town and village, he halted his horse 
long enough to allow the gig in advance of him 
to move out of sight, when he followed slowly 
behind. He lost sight of the vehicle, however, for 
in approaching Brinkwater, not wishing to attract 
attention to his movements, he did not enter the 
village but passed it to the left, and came up to the 
Farrell mansion by a detour which led directly 
to the stables, where he left his horse.. 

He approached the house stealthily, hoping, 
if possible, to surprise Artey, the idiot, in one 
of his nightly rambles. As he walked watch- 
fully around the house, he thought he heard a 
movement within, and went rapidly to the rear 
gable, which was covered with a screen of ivy, in- 
tending to wait in its dense shadow for the prowler, 
who he did not doubt was the idiot. 

Just as the sheriff reached the corner of the 
gable, he heard a rapid rustling of the leaves, 
and saw the figure of a man drop on the grass, 
bound down the terrace and fly across the park as 
though endowed with wings. He called in vain 
to the flying figure, which was soon swallowed in 
the gloom, and knowing pursuit was useless, he 
turned back and entered the house with one of 
the keys which had been placed in his possession. 
He examined carefully the doors, windows, 
and shutter-fastenings, and found them undis- 
turbed. 

On going into the library he saw the explanation 
of an order of the court for the possession of 


WHAT THE SHERIFF DISCOVERED. gt 

the keys, in a visit of Benedict Strong, evidently 
in quest of documentary evidence bearing on the 
case. The sheriff finding no traces of illegal 
house-breaking, for he considered the act of the 
prosecutor little less than burglary, ascended the 
stairway, carefully examining the stair-carpet with 
the aid of a powerful lantern he had brought, 
and saw marks of blood on the dark ground of 
the carpet. He went at once to the room where 
the murder had been committed, leaving a light in 
the hall from the supply of candles he had pro- 
vided. 

The room remained just* as the coroner had left 
it. The house and grounds had been committed 
to the care of the sheriff as soon as the inquest was 
over. He had tried in vain to have the bloody 
linen of the bed, in which Joseph Farrell had been 
murdered, washed, and the room put in order, but 
no offer of reward could tempt the timid and super- 
stitious washerwomen of Brinkwater to cleanse the 
horrid garments. There was a feeling, too, that 
nothing must be touched till after the trial, for fear 
some precious piece of evidence might be de- 
stroyed. 

The bed, therefore, was decently veiled by the 
white counterpane which was spread smoothly 
over the pillows. The sheriff turned down the 
covering, disclosing the gory stains, and saw on the 
under sheet a square greenish mark, which at first 
sight might have been taken for blood, but which 
on close inspection, he found to be the impress of a 




92 the tragedy of BRINKWATER. 

grass-stain which might have been made by the 
knee of a man. With his knife he carefully 
cut out the mark on the sheet, . which being 
toward the middle of the bed, and concealed by 
the covering, must have escaped the eye of the 
coroner, and put it in his pocketbook for future 
reference. 

Martin stooped to take up his lantern, which 
he had set upon the floor while he secured 
the bit of bed linen, and saw behind one of 
the large casters, at the back of the bedstead, 
a small shining object. He went behind the 
bed and picked it up and discovered, with a 
bounding heart, that it was a small metal whistle, 
exactly like the one he had seen in the hands 
of the idiot. 

Here was the precious clew! 

The meeting with Artey in the church-yard, the 
words of the grave-digger, to which he attached no 
importance, at the time : the devil gets into him 
sometimes ; he’s wildest when the moon fulls ; he 
doesn’t know what fear is ; he turns night into 
day,” with the recovery of the lost whistle, which 
the grave-digger had replaced, and the reflection 
that the boy probably had access to the house 
at all hours and might have concealed himself 
there, unknown to the family, flashed upon Mar- 
tin like a flood of sunlight, and chased from his 
heart the gloom that had so long brooded 
there. 

“ He did it ! ” cried the sheriff, the tears stream- 


PVHAT THE SHERIFF DISCOVERED, 93 


mg from his eyes ; and falling on his knees, he 
thanked God it had been granted him to prove 
the innocence, and secure the safety of his pris- 
oners. 

He concealed the evidence he had discovered of 
the crime, and leaving the room, he locked the door 
behind him. 

How relieved Virgin Grey and Martha Blunt 
were to find in the stalwart, armed man, who 
swung open the door of the attic stairway, the 
friendly sheriff of Marshmeadows, can well be ima- 
gined. Martin was a man of great self-control un- 
der circumstances where silence and discretion 
were necessary, and although greatly excited, 
he suppressed all show of feeling or surprise at 
seeing the women ; merely remarking, I thought 
there was some one else in the house, beside my- 
self.’^ 

“ How glad I am it is only you, Martin ! ” ex- 
claimed Virgin, who had borne as much as her long- 
tried nerves could endure. 

Who did you think it was ? ” asked the 
sheriff, smiling down on the two pale, frightened 
women. 

Nobody less than the man that killed Joseph 
Farrell,” replied the housekeeper. 

I only wish it were,” said Martin, then, think- 
ing of Martha Blunt as the mother of the crim- 
- inal, he added, as far as I am concerned, I 
mean.” 

Ah, I wish it too,” sighed Virgin fervently ; con- 


94 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 


tradicting her first greeting to the sheriff, in her 
relief at seeing an honest man, when she had 
expected to see an assassin ; her lips still quiver- 
ing with terror at the supposed danger she had 
escaped. Have you been in the garret ? ” she 
asked Martin, without reflecting that he could not 
have got down stairs before them, and for the 
moment supposing the footsteps she had heard 
there were the sheriff’s. 

No,” he returned, “ I am just on my way there 
now.” 

“ Then somebody has been there before you,” 
said the housekeeper, for we heard rapid foot- 
steps, as of some one running away ; ” though she 
had not put it in that way before. 

Then, woman-like, you run away yourself,” the 
sheriff said facetiously. He felt a great relief from 
the mountain of grief and anxiety that had pressed 
so long upon him. 

It is my duty to see who run and where 
he has run to,” he said, mounting the attic 
stairs. 

He recalled the figure flying through the 
park, that he did not now doubt was the 
idiot, who, scared by the light and the voices 
of the women, had made his escape by the 
ivy. 

The sheriff, followed by Virgin and Martha 
Blunt, who were afraid to stay below, went up the 
stairs and made his way across the attic to the 
wooden partition that divided it from the garret. 


VVHA7' THE SHERIFF DISCOVERED, 95 

He pushed aside the sliding-door, and entered the 
low garret, stooping and dodging with his head 
and shoulders the savory bunches of the house- 
keeper’s thrift which dangled from the rafters in 
many a fragrant cluster, filling the whole place 
with the delicious, thymy odor of an old-fashioned 
garden. Martha stopped and began with the 
instinct of her duty to provide, to fill her arms with 
the spicy bundles, saying as she did so, Artey 

helped ” but she left the sentence unfinished 

and glanced anxiously at Virgin, who, unmindful 
of the housekeeper’s actions, was watching the 
sheriff and listening to the flutter and whirring of 
wings, and the deep melodious cooing of pigeons, 
as Martin, displacing a loosened board of the par- 
tition wall,' entered and disturbed with the light 
the sleeping brood. Martha and Virgin crept 
through the opening after him, feeling safety only 
in the presence of their male protector. There was 
a great tumult among the occupants of the 
dove-cot; at this intrusion, and the noise and 
confusion covered the action of the sheriff, who, 
groping around, with the aid of his lantern, dis- 
covered in a rapid survey of the premises, an old 
pair of trowsers rolled up and tossed into a corner 
under the eaves. He made a small bundle of the 
garment, which he concealed under the cape of his 
coat before it could be observed by either of the 
women. Martin believed the trowsers had been 
thrown in their hiding-place by the idiot, but he 
did not wish to distress Martha Blunt ^ith suspi- 


9 ^ THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 


cions of her son’s guilt until the truth could 
be verified. Highly gratified with the discover- 
ies he had made, the sheriff led his companions 
down to the outer door, where he bade them 
await his return with their vehicle and his own 
horse. 

As he entered the stable his foot struck an object 
which emitted a clicking sound, and feeling around 
in the straw that covered it, the sheriff picked up 
a small, tightly-corked bottle, which, upon opening, 
he found to contain a remnant of chloroform. 
“ Here is more evidence,” he thought, as he placed 
the bottle in his breast coat-pocket. There was a 
distinct rustling of the hay overhead, with which 
the loft was still filled, and remembering the flying 
figure he had seen, and the footsteps heard by the 
women in the dove-cote, he felt certain the idiot 
was lurking about the place, and had taken refuge 
for the night in the hay-loft. But if the sheriff was 
right in his conviction that the boy was hiding 
from him, a thorough search of the stable-loft 
failed to disclose his whereabouts. 

He has tunneled the hay like a mole, and 
one might as well look for a needl^in a hay-stack,” 
said the baffled sheriff, flashing his lantern about in 
the vain endeavor to discover the boy’s hiding- 
place : and calling in a tone of authority he bade 
him come out and show himself ; and thinking to 
allure him by this means he called out, ‘‘ Your 
mother is here, and wants to see you, boy.” But 






WHAT THE SHEE/FF DISCO FETED. 97 

there was no response, and all was dead silence 
again. 

The sheriff was now firmly convinced, through 
the evidence he had, that the idiot was the true 
criminal. He had not yet had time to think over 
the proofs he had in his keeping, but he felt assured 
he held in his hand the long-sought clew, and he 
determined to follow it up until the whole mystery 
was unraveled. 

The two women remained cowering in the 
doorway, afraid to stay, or go, and just as the 
sheriff came up with the horses and gig, a loud, 
shrill whistle awoke the midnight echoes. Martha 
Blunt clapped her hands to her ears, turning deathly 
pale, while Virgin, who felt perfect safety in the 
sheriff’s presence, took her by the arm and led her 
to the gig. Martin seemed oblivious of the sound, 
and when Virgin asked what it meant, he made 
light of it, saying it was only one of the village lads 
r whistling to keep his courage up. 

The sheriff rode beside the gig to Marsh- 
meadows, and saw the women safely housed ; 
then he took charge of the gig and made 
his way home. Shut within his own house, 
where all was dark and silent, Martin unrolled 
the bundle containing the trowsers ; they were 
stained with blood, and had a green mark on 
the ‘knee. He took from his pocket-book the piece 
of linen he had cut from the sheet, and found the 
mark fitted exactly to the mark on the knee of the 
trowsers, 


gS the tragedy of brink water. 

The sheriff went to bed a thankful man, 
that night. He had gone to the cell of Ernest 
Farrell with the good news, but when the light of 
his lantern fell through the grating upon the young 
man’s beautiful face, he was in a deep sleep : his 
calm expression betokening a happy dream. Good 
news will keep,” said the sheriff, turning away. I 
will wait till morning. This is the first night I 
have seen him sleep like that, and he needs it, poo r 
fellow.” 

But though the sheriff went to bed he could not 
sleep. He whom sorrow had kept awake so many 
nights, now could not sleep for joy. The precious 
clew was surely found ! He knew Martha Blunt’s 
heart would be torn by the revelation, but would it 
be a revelation ? He believed the woman feared, or 
suspected something. What was it ? The sheriff 
turned and tossed on his pillow. “ Could it be,” 
he asked himself, that the idiot had an accom- 
plice ?” Could it be that Agnes Farrell was the insti- 
gator of this dreadful deed ? If the housekeeper 
sUvSpected that her son had a hand in the murder 
of Joseph Farrell, did she not know that his mental 
condition rendered him safe from responsibility ? 
Or was her silence a shield for one who was respon- 
sible ? And yet, Martha Blunt’s testimony had not 
screened her mistress. At all events she must be 
made to tell all she knew. 

Toward morning Martin fell asleep, but he awoke 
long before his wife, with a light and joyous heart. 

When Mary Martin opened her eyes it was to see 


WHAT THE SHERIFF DISCOVERED, 99 


her husband holding his infant son in his arms, and 
smiling down upon its little face. Yes, he does 
grow, Mary,” said the sheriff, and he looks like 
his mother, God bless him ! ” 

Martin went down before the household was 
stirring, to the office of the jail where he had left 
the trowsers in a bundle on his table. He wished to 
examine them in the morning-light. As the gar- 
ment unrolled before him, he saw that they had 
been made for a much taller person than the idiot ; 
he noticed too, for the first time, that the texture 
of the cloth was of the finest, and that the trowsers 
were cut and made in the highest style of the 
tailor’s art. There was a watch-fob, which had 
evidently been used, and the hip-pocket showed 
that a pistol had been carried there ; they were 
spattered with mud as though they had been worn 
in riding on a rough journey. Martin threw the 
trowsers carelessly over the back of a chair, puzzled 
what to think of them, when he noticed a name 
written in black ink on the under side of the 
reversed pocket. It was the name of Ernest Far- 
rell ! 

The sheriff staggered under the revulsion of 
feeling that overwhelmed him. He snatched the 
trowsers from the chair, and looking around hastily 
to see that lie was unobserved he rolled them up 
and thrust them into the upper drawer of his secre- 
tary. He locked the drawer, and going back pulled 
at it to see if it was secure. He went on.t into the air, 
for the house seemed stifling, but he had gone only 


lOO the tragedy of brinkwater. 

a short distance when he hurried back, and tried 
the drawer again ; not satisfied with knowing it was 
locked, he opened it to make sure that the trowsers 
were within, then relocked the drawer, and put the 
key in his pocket. How glad Sheriff Martin was 
that he had not awakened Ernest Farrell from his 
blissful dream, only to tell him he had discovered 
another link in the chain of circumstantial evidence ! 
For how could the sheriff doubt that the blood- 
stained and muddy trowsers, with the damning 
green mark on the knee, were worn by Ernest 
Farrell on the night of his brother’s murder. He 
distinctly remembered to have heard in the village, 
that on the morning of the day preceding the 
murder, Ernest had been hunting all day, and 
returning late and weary, had probably not changed 
his clothes that evening. 

So the chain of evidence the sheriff had so pain- 
fully forged, broke and fell from his grasp like 
water. 

The fact of finding the idiot’s whistifiu in the 
room of the murdered rpan proved nothing. The 
boy, under the charge of his mother, had the range 
of the house; the whistle might have been dropped 
there long before the murder. The clew had 
escaped him ; the sheriff was aimlessly wander- 
ing again. But if Ernest Farrell were guilty, or 
not guilty (and the sheriff absolutely, in the face 
of all proofs, refused to believe him guilty), the 
prosecution should never know what evidence 
Samuel Martin held under lock and key. He car- 


WHAT THE SHERIFF DISCOVERED, loi 


ried the bundle of papers, forgotten until now, that 
Virgin Grey had given him the night of the search, 
to Ernest Farrell, unaware that he was the bearer 
of good news, that came, alas, too late ! 


> 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE MEETING OF THE PRISONERS. 

T his was the night Sheriff Martin promised 
Ernest Farrell he should see his mother. 

The prison clock struck ten, and yet Martin had 
not come : had he forgotten his promise ? The 
time dragged heavily to Ernest, as time does to 
those who anxiously wait. 

But the sheriff had been delayed : some business 
connected with the approaching tnal must be 
attended to ; it was half-past ten before he was 
done. 

I will tell him to-night ; it must be put off no 
longer,'’ said Martin, sinking under the burden he 
had so long and bravely carried, unlocking the 
drawer of the secretary, and looking at the fatal 
garment. I can bear it no longer. I’ve done my 
best to save him, and here is what I’ve got for my 
pains. The evidence is damning enough without 
them^ and there is enough of it to hang a dozen 
men.” The sheriff took a deep draught from a 
flask that was kept in the drawer of the secretary, 


THE MEETING OF THE PRISONERS. 103 


and used only as a medicine. But I need it now, 
if I ever needed it. I must steady my nerves. I am 
as shaky as a weather-vane. I am unfit for duty ; 
there never was a better time to resign,'' he hope- 
lessly sighed, plenty of men are ready enough to 
step into my shoes to-morrow." He took down 
his lantern and the bunch of keys that hung beneath 
the parrot’s cage ; the bird, hearing the familiar 
sound of the jingling keys, uttered a croak and 
rang out its cry of Murder, murder." Hush, 
you green devil ! " -cried the sheriff, in a passion, 
“ am I to be pursued with that demon cry, forever ? 
It’s murder ! murder ! murder ! wherever I go. I 
will persuade myself pretty soon that I have com- 
mitted a murder.” He shook in every fiber as he went 
tottering down the basement stairs that conducted 
to the prison cells. Ernest heard the long-expected 
footsteps, and stood at the grating ready to go out 
with the sheriff. He noticed the man’s haggard 
face. His office is not an enviable one," thought 
Ernest. Martin spoke not a word as he moodily led 
the way to the cell of Agnes Farrell. When they 
entered all was quiet as the grave. The tall form 
of Agnes was stretched upon the low cot beneath a 
coverlet of white. The full moon, shining through 
the grated window, threw the shadow of a broad, 
black cross on her bosom. Her face bore the 
impress of a sorrow that even sleep could not 
efface. She could not have looked more truly 
dead. 

“ She rests well, at last," whispered the sheriff. 


104 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 


Ernest threw himself on his knees beside her cot. 
Kneeling there he looked like a fair, young priest 
ready to render the last sad offices to a passing 
soul. Dearest mother,'' he cried, with tears of 
anguish filling his eyes, how changed, how 
changed she is !" 

Agnes woke with a start from her deep sleep and 
rose in her bed. ‘‘ Is the dread hour come ? " she 
asked hoarsely, with wildly staring eyes. I am not 
ready yet — Oh, my son, my son," she cried as 
growing accustomed to the glare of light, for the 
sheriff had set down his lantern as he with- 
drew, she threw her arms around Ernest's 
neck and sobbed and moaned upon his bosom. 
‘‘ No, no, I am not ready yet. It must not be to- 
night." 

My precious mother, I am here to comfort and 
console you ; put away all dreadful thoughts ; there 
is no present danger ; we will hope every thing 
from the trial, which is yet weeks away." 

To comfort and console me ! Ah, wretched 
woman that I am ! there is no comfort, or consola- 
tion for me, forever ! Ah, why was I born ? Why 
was I permitted to bring you into the world 
only to meet this terrible end ? Why can not I 
die?" 

“ Listen to me, dear mother ! " said Ernest, clasp- 
ing the hands she wrung so wildly, “ let me tell 
you, I have a feeling of certainty that we shall be 
acquitted. Two innocent people can not be made 
to suffer for a wrong they did not commit." He 




THE MEETING OF THE PRISONERS. 105 

spoke with the resolute calmness of serious convic- 
tion. 

“ Two innocent people ; two innocent people, 
Ernest ? She asked the question with an eager 
anxiousness that startled her son. Could he look 
her in the face like that and lie ! My God ! " he 
uttered under his breath, “ what can she mean ? 
Is her reason gone ? Can she have persuaded 
herself that she did commit the murder, or can 
she suspect through the awful pressure of the 
evidence against me, that I, — but no ! such a 
thought is to doubt her love, to doubt her sanity.” 
He gently stroked her fast-whitening hair ; she 
lay composed under his soothing touch with closed 
eyes and moving lips that uttered no sound. Sud- 
denly she started up ; the strained look of agony in 
her face was piteous to see. 

. Ah, I remember now, it was a dream, a hideous 
dream. It was all so sudden and terrible, that 
since that awfiil night I have not been able to sep- 
arate truth from error.” She looked into the noble, 
sorrowful face bent above her and for a moment 
doubt doubted. 

Yes, dearest mother,” Ernest answered, it 
was a wretched dream. In the happy days to come 
we will look back upon this ordeal as a horrid 
nightmare which it shall be the duty and pleasure 
of my life to make you forget.” 

She did not heed his tender words. The vision 
of that dreadful scene had seared itself upon her 
brain and blotted out every other remembrance. 


io 6 the tragedy of brinkwater. 


‘‘ I thought it was a dream — and then I thought 
— I thought I saw you go — oh, you must know what 
I saw — if I did not dream — ” She rose to a sitting 
posture, and seizing his arm shook him rudely. 
“ Swear ^ swear,” she shrieked, that my own eyes 
deceived me, and it was a dream ! ” He could only 
think her raving as he held her. in his arms, and 
with a superhuman effort at self-control, soothed 
her frenzy. 

I saw you — in my dream — ” she continued — 
returning to the one idea that had so long possessed 
her, “ I saw you in my dream, go down the stairs : 
the gown, the towel, the knife were dripping blood. 
I called your name — I heard my own voice — oh ! 
oh ! oh ! my God, can it be true ! ” 

He knew the awful truth at last. She believed 
him to be the murderer of his brother. He saw 
that in the struggle to solve the mystery that 
shrouded the crime, knowing her own innocence, 
this justice-loving spirit had fixed upon him 
as the only other person who could be accused of 
the deed, and the belief that her son was the perpe- 
trator of the crime had unsettled her reason. 

He must convince her of his innocence if he 
could. Mother,” he cried passionately, holding 
her wavering gaze with his steadfast eye. You 
have taught me both by precept and example to 
revere the truth, and I swear, by the sacred love I 
bear you, and another, and as though in the presence 
of Almighty God, that I went straight to my bed 
when I left you that dreadful night, and that I 


THE MEETING OF THE PRISONERS. 1 07 

never saw Joseph Farrell again until I looked upon 
his dead face.” She scanned him with her wild 
eyes as though she would read his inmost soul^ 
then burst into frightful laughter. I did not 
see you,” she cried hysterically. I did not call 
you. I did not say I saw you. I dreamed I saw 
you, I dreamed I heard my voice calling you, I — 
I ” — she looked wildly around, and then for an 
instant, losing all self control, she cried out in a 
dreadful voice, I have died, and this is hell.” 

To reason with a mind distraught was useless. 
Ernest took his mother in his arms, and rocked 
and soothed her as one would soothe a terrified 
child. You remember, mother,” he said in a low, 
calm voice, when your Ernest was a little boy, 
how we walked together in the pleasant meadows 
of Brinkwater, and beside the lake ; how we 
gathered pebbles, and mosses, and flowers ; how 
one day, I found a wounded bird and brought it 
home, and healed its broken wing and let it fly to 
its mate again ? You remember my birth-night 
party when poor little Dick fell in the lake, and I 
swam in and drew him out ? I was a tender-hearted 
lad, you know, and when Martha cut her wrist 
with the knife that Artey made so sharp,” — she 
started up and listened now with breathless interest. 

I fainted at the sight of her blood, and every 
day from hour to hour I have striven never to do a 
wanton or cruel thing, knowing it would wound 
you, whom I love so much, and knowing, as you 


I08 the tea gee V OF BRINKWATER, 

had taught me, that God’s eye was ever upon me. 
And now when sorrow and shame have overtaken 
me, through no fault of mine, and your little boy” — 
her tears were falling fast — comes to you for help 
in his extremity as to one who stands nearest his 
Gxodiy you will not cast him off, mother?” She 
sobbed as though her soul would burst from its 
wretched prison-house. Knowing relief must come 
with tears, he gently laid her down again. See, I 
kneel as I used to at your bedside : your hand was 
on my little head then, mother ” — she laid 
her hand upon his beautiful bowed head — ‘‘and 
pray. Our Father, who art in heaven, we come to 
Thee, as to a loving father, for help in this sad 
time of need. Give us of Thy infinite patience 
to bear the load of sorrow laid upon us ; give us of 
Thy unfailing strength to await the end. Let no 
dread phantom of doubt darken the perfect love 
we bear each other.” — She lay still and stark upon 
her cot with her eyes fixed on the black vaulted 
ceiling. The struggle was over. Ever after she 
looked upon it as a temptation, as an evil influence 
that had grown out of her passionate hatred for 
the murdered man, that came as his last expression 
of power over her, to haunt and hound her to de- 
struction. But the light of Ernest’s devoted love 
had banished this horrid specter, and it' was laid 
forever. She spoke in a calm, clear voice at last, as 
one who had come to life again, after a fearful con- 
test with the powers of darkness. “ My dear son, 


THE MEETING OF THE PRISONERS, 109 

God has given me peace through you ; nay, do not 
embrace me, dearest love,” she cried, pushing him 
back with her hands, and flinging herself from the 
cot, she fell at his feet and clasped his knees. 

Ernest,” she moaned, my love for you has been 
the one ardent love of my life ; you have aever 
given me a single pang; you have from the moment 
of your birth, been my all in all : the perfect son of 
an unworthy mother. And yet 1 have dared to 
doubt you ! Take pity on my weakness and for- 
give your sorely tempted mother her unnatural 
sin. I am happy now, even here^ and — death, death, 
though on the scaffold, has no sting now.” He 
lifted her from his feet, thrilled with alarm at the 
slightness of her form, and placed her on the 
cot. Her expression from haggard anguish had 
changed to rapturous joy. Thank God for this 
deliverance ! ” she murmured ; then folding her 
wasted hands she softly prayed. 

“ My visit has done you good, dearest mother,” 
said Ernest, seeing through grateful tears the 
holy joy depicted in her face. ‘‘Yes,” she 
answered, with a smile that lighted her wan vis- 
age, revealing all the ravages of grief, as the mid- 
night lightning shows the rents in tower and 
cliff, “ yes, now I can sleep, and dream no more.” 
He kissed her fondly many times, arranged her 
pillows with loving hands, saying, “ Now let me do 
for you, what you have so often done for me when 
I was your little boy,” as he tucked the coverings 
about her 


no the tragedy of brinkwater. 


She put up her arms and drew down his 
bright head. My little boy ! God bless my ^on. 
Good-night.’* 


CHAPTER X. 


THE TEMPTATION. 

T he sheriff rattled the keys impatiently at the 
door. He had locked the prisoners in the cell, 
and as he passed back and forth he had caught 
fragments of the conversation between mother and 
son that added to the excitement under which he 
was fast breaking down. He unlocked the door, 
and as Ernest stepped into the corridor, the sher- 
iff seized him by the arm and led him in a direc- 
tion away from his cell. They stopped before a 
great iron door, which the sheriff opened, disclos- 
ing the prison-yard. Ernest followed him mechani- 
cally, still too much under the influence of the re- 
cent interview with his mother to know whither he 
was going, until he breathed the fresh air outside, 
and felt the space of the spanning heaven above 
him. He drew himself up with a feeling of uncon- 
scious delight, but before hexould recover himself 
sufficiently to ask the sheriff the meaning of this 
unusual act, Samuel Martin swung his lantern 
wildly aloft in the air, crying : The world is as 
free to you, as to me, Ernest Farrell ; Fly I Flv ! 
for your life ! ” 


1 1 2 THE TRA GED Y OF BRINKWA TER, 


The young man darted a look of amazement at 
Martin ; then grasping him by both arms he ex- 
claimed : Do you tempt me, sheriff ? 

No, I do not tempt you ; I give you your lib- 
erty. I believe you are an innocent man, but I 
can not prove it, and you must go, go ! ” 

It is impossible, Martin,*’ said Ernest Farrell 
sadly. I would not leave my mother if I could go. 
Flight is a confession, and it would be only the 
flight of the tethered bird ; the law holds me.” 

But do you know what will happen if you stay, 
boy ? Do you not know that the chain of evi- 
dence is complete and damning ? I have in my 
possession the very trowsers you wore the night of 
the murder, spattered with your morning’s ride, 
a^nd your brother’s blood ; and the stain on the 
knee is printed on the bed he was murdered in. 
I found them concealed in your dwelling. You 
will be hung by the neck until you are dead, dead ! ” 
The sheriff, in his frenzy, seized the young man and 
shook him roughly. Hung^ I say, hung ! 

‘‘ What can you mean, man,” cried Ernest, 
pointing to his person ; “these are th^ trowsers I 
had on the night of my brother’s murder.” 

“ Prove it ! prove it ! and you are saved,” 
shrieked the sheriff. 

‘ That can easily be done ! ” exclaimed Ernest, 
with that feeling of relief the smallest ray of hope 
brings to the despairing. “ A half-dozen people 
will testify to the truth of this.” 

Yes, and Benedict Strong will bring a dozen 


THE TEMPTATION. 


113 

people who will swear that you had on the trowsers 
that are locked in my secretary, stained with your 
brother’s blood, your name written on the watch- 
fob, that the watch you carry will fit, and the mark 
of your pistol on the hip-pocket ; it is another link 
in the chain of evidence that’s going to hang you, 
and your ” 

Stop ! for God’s sake, Martin ! do not mention 
the name of my mother in that connection. This 
is simply monstrous, that a man is allowed, by law, 
no chance for his life. I will not believe it.” 

Account for them, then ; account for the bloody 
garment with your name written in plain letters on 
the pocket, to Benedict Strong, if you can ! ” 

I can not account for the blood upon the trow- 
sers, but I tell you we hold in our hand the clew 
that must unravel this dreadful mystery. Let us go 
on till we find the guilty man who can account for 
it.” 

I have been going on until I have made mat- 
ters worse and worse, and I see no way out of the 
web in which we all are entangled. We shall be 
killed like flies, and that venomous spider, Bene- 
dict Strong ” 

^^You are raving, Martin,” interrupted Ernest, 
gently turning the sheriff about and leading him 
back to the prison. Come in,” he said, and sit 
down ; you are burning with fever.” He seated 
the distracted man on his cot, who buried his 
face in his hands. Of the two men, Samuel Mar- 
tin looked like the one condemned. 


114 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 


Ah, there’s a long story of my own, back of this 
of yours, Mr. Farrell,’’ groaned the sheriff. I have 
been trying to get away from it, and forget it, but 
it has come home to me at last.” 

“Tell me your sad story, Martin,” said Ernest, 
hoping to quiet the excited sheriff, by leading him 
to think and talk of something beside the desper- 
ate case that haunted and baffled him. “ I am in a 
position to sympathize with the wretched, if man 
ever was, and I will help you if I can.” 

“ No, no, you can not help me,” sighed Martin ; 
“ what has been done can not be undone, and I 
must bear it ; it will end some time. I do not 
know what is going to happen to me, Ernest Farrell: 
I know I am a broken man, but whatever does hap- 
pen, remember I was your friend to the last, and 
believed you were innocent. I have tried, with all 
'my poor, human powers to help you, and I have 
asked God’s pity and direction, but it has all come 
to naught. Innocent men have been hung be- 
fore,” the sheriff continued, in a soliloquizing tone, 
as he thrust his fingers through his hair, and 
dropped his face in his hands. “ Life is not worth 
much, at the best. He who sees the beginning 
from the end, knows why such things must be. 
Poor fellow ! poor fellow ! ” 

Never had Ernest Farrell felt the sting of utter 
despair until he saw his only friend give way to 
hopeless dejection. “You give up all hope?” at 
last, he said in a faltering voice. 

It is cruel to add one feather’s weight to the 


THE TEMPTATION. 


IIS 

burden you already bear, Ernest Farrell — but I will 
never give up all hope,” after a pause he added, 
“ while you and I live, and I believe I shall go 
to my account long before you are called to 
yours.” 

^^Can you think of nothing to be done, Mar- 
tin, to break this hideous spell that holds us 
all?” Ernest Farrell had not known till this 
moment how he had clung to the sheriff’s stubborn 
hope. When that broke down the earth seemed to 
be slipping from under his feet. The sheriff’s 
worn face lighted for an instant with a feeble 
smile. 

“ Here is all that can be done,” he said, fumbling 
in his breast-pocket and drawing out the phial 
containing the opium that he had carried so long 
untouched. ‘‘There is enough for two,” he said 
simply. The young man drew back in horror. 
“ You are indeed without hope,” he said. 

“ I am desperate, Ernest Farrell,” replied the 
sheriff, “ and I believe through this black drug lies 
your only door of escape.” He placed the phial 
mechanically in Ernest’s hand, who received it 
involuntarily as he stood with pallid face and fixed 
gaze staring at the sheriff. 

“ Oh, I can not bear to have you look at me like 
that, Ernest Farrell ; it seems like your accusing 
spirit,” cried the sheriff, turning aside his head. 

“ I do not accuse you,” answered Ernest in a 
voice so different from his own, the sheriff turned 
to see if another stood beside them. “ I know too 


Ii6 the tragedy of BRINKWATER.‘ 

well the meaning of that awful word, God help us 
both ! 

The sheriff wrung his prisoner’s hand. It has 
come to that, Mr. Farrell ; only God can help us.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE CLEW. 

S AMUEL Martin could not keep away from the 
spot where the murder had been committed. 
He haunted the place like a spirit doomed to 
revisit the scenes of its guilt and sorrow. He had 
made almost daily journeys to the house, which he 
watched with an intense and wistful interest. His 
appearance was much changed ; from the hale, 
ruddy, upright man he was before the murder, he 
had grown thin, sallow, and stooping. His face 
wore a haggard, anxious look, and his manner had 
changed from its habitual, gentle dignity to morose 
petulance. Toward Denby, the grave-digger, alone 
did he show any of his former kindliness. They 
sat on the tombstone a good deal in the summer 
afternoons and talked of the desperate case. One 
day it occurred to the sheriff to question Denby 
about the idiot's lost whistle which the grave-digger 
had replaced. 

“ About what time did you give Artey that 
whistle, Denby ; was it before or after the murder ? " 


1 1 8 the tra ged y of brink tv a TEk, 

asked the sheriff in an abstracted sort of way ; for 
since the finding of the trowsers the sheriff had 
given up the idea of the idiot’s complicity in the 
murder. 

‘‘ Oh, it was nigh upon the time of the murder,” 
Denby replied, with no notion of what was in the 
sheriff’s mind. I remember he came whistlin’ 
around when I was diggin’ Joseph Farrell’s grave, 
and I wanted to choke him ; he’s got no respect fur 
any thing livin’ or dead.” 

The sheriff started up with sudden energy and 
left the grave-digger without a word. 

Samuel Martin’s takin’ that case hard,” said 
Denby, as the sheriff, with bowed shoulders, wended 
his way through the church-yard. If ’twas his 
own son he couldn’t take more interust. I wonder 
where Dick Martin’s took hisself off to ? They 
say he went to sea : he’s been gone long enough to 
be caught a dozen times.” 

Martin went straight from the church-yard to the 
Farrell mansion. The place, seen near at hand, 
and in the clear morning light, wore the dilapidated 
look of an heir-at-law. The gates swung open ; 
the walks were grass-grown ; weeds grew where 
carefully-tended flowers once bloomed ; and the 
wealth of honeysuckle and roses that covered the 
verandas had cast their burden of beauty and 
fragrance to the ground; the spider had spun a 
marvelous web across the threshold, and no foot- 
steps had brushed the freshness of the grassy lawn. 


119 




THE CLEW, 

The sheriff had but one idea in his mind when he 
left Denby, and that was to intercept the idiot, and 
if possible get from him some clew to the murder, 
which he now really suspected the boy could, if 
rightly approached, furnish. He had often seen 
Artey in the neighborhood of the premises, but he 
had never yet found him within the grounds, unless 
the flying figure of his midnight quest had been 
the idiot’s. Now Martin’s heart bounded, when, as he 
drew near the house, he saw the boy clambering up 
the ivy that covered one of the rear gables to the 
roof, like a cat creeping to its prey, and disappear 
through an opening in the gable concealed by the 
ivy. He went at once to the spot and found the 
vine, a very old and powerful stock, the body of 
which was several inches in diameter, covering 
with its vigorous branches the entire gable, thus 
concealing any aperture that might be above. 
Martin placed his foot on the lower branches and 
essayed to climb, but a man weighing nearly two 
hundred pounds could not go where a light and 
more agile person would be safe. He waited 
silently at the foot of the ivy, and shortly a white 
cloud of pigeons flew from within and dispersed 
themselves on the eaves of the house. The idiot 
soon emerged with a small bag in his hand, and 
lightly descending, blew a call on his whistle, and 
began to scatter the contents of the bag, evidently 
some kind of seed, which brought the pigeons in a 
flock to the ground, where they swarmed around 


120 the tea gee V OF BRINKWATER. 

the boy, feeding from his hand, and lighting on 
his head and shoulders in the most friendly man- 
ner. 

There are some things that love him beside 
his mother,” thought the sheriff, as he approached 
the spot where the pigeons were feeding. 

The boy, seeing the sheriff for the first time, 
flung out his arms with an upward movement, and 
the pigeons dispersed as quickly as they had col- 
lected. He turned and was moving rapidly away, 
when the sheriff’s commanding, Halt ! ” stopped 
him. 

Not wishing to frighten the idiot, who already 
held him in sufficient awe, but to conciliate and 
win his confidence, for he knew his dark and 
crooked mind could be approached only by kind- 
ness, the sheriff said gently, ‘‘ The pigeons seem to 
like you, Artey.” 

‘‘ The pigeons are behaving themselves,” returned 
the idiot, remembering the words of the grave- 
digger in the church-yard, where he had last seen 
the sheriff. 

He edged away with a furtive look at Martin. 

‘‘Yes, I see they are very well-behaved pigeons. 
And I like pigeons, too.” 

“ Did you ever ride a race with the devil ? ” 
asked the idiot, cunningly, changing the conversa- 
tion and moving away from the vicinity of the 
dove-cot. 

“ Well,” replied the wary sheriff, “ I may have to 
yet. You have, I know.” 


THE CLEW. 


I2I 


The idiot darted a quick glance at the sheriff’s 
face, and seeing nothing there to excite apprehen- 
sion, answered, Yes, I have, ’twas the night I 
lamed the bay filly.” 

‘‘ And the owner of the bay filly walloped you ? ” 
returned the sheriff, without much thought of what 
he was saying. 

“ He did, curse him ! ” growled the idiot, 

‘‘And who was the owner of the bay filly?” 
asked Martin, only thinking to keep the boy’s 
tongue going. 

“ Do you know the moon is the old hen that 
hatches the stars ? ” was the answer the sheriff 
got. 

“ Does she hatch the pigeons up yonder, too ? ” 
making a backward motion of his head in the 
direction of the dove-cot. He saw at once by 
the lowering look of the boy’s face that the 
subject of the pigeons was one not to be trifled 
with. Reflecting a moment, Martin added, with 
the hope of allaying the idiot’s fears that he 
had any unfriendly intentions toward his com- 
rades, “ I have more pigeons than you can shake 
a stick at. I will give them all to you, if you want 
them.” 

The confidential tone the sheriff had assumed 
soothed the suspicions of the boy who, now alive 
with childish interest, eagerly asked, “Are they 
white ? ” 

“ Some of them are white, some black, some gray 


t22 TltE TRACED Y OF BRINKWATER. 


and one is green,” said the sheriff, with a sudden 
inspiration, and it talks.” 

I will take the green one,” cried the delighted 
idiot ; what does it say ? ” 

The sheriff knew the time had come to make a 
bold move ; he had tried persuasion, he must now 
try what fright would do. Seizing the idiot roughly 
by the arm, he cried in a terrible voice, ‘‘ The green 
pigeon says. Murder ! Murder ! Murder ! He did 
it ! He did it ! He did it ! Kill him ! Kill him ! 
Kill him ! ” 

The idiot, with fear pictured in his face, shud- 
dered in every fiber. Let me go ! ” he shrieked, 
struggling in the sheriff’s powerful grasp. ‘‘ I do 
not want the green pigeon.” 

‘‘ But,” said Martin, in a deep, sepulchral voice, 
“ the green pigeon wants yo?i / ” 

The terror of a hunted soul, brought to bay, 
glared from the idiot’s eyes. With the joy that a 
long-sought discovery brings, Martin knew that at 
last he held in his hand a solution of the awful mys- 
tery. The boy was speechless, ashen, and shaking 
with terror. 

“ I know what you know,” said the sheriff, and 
you might as well make a clean breast of it.” 

I don’t know any thing,” whimpered the idiot, 
and I promised not to tell,” he added, illogi- 
cally. 

If you do not tell me I will have the owner of 
the bay filly wallop you again,” threatened the 
sheriff, little thinking who the owner was. 


The idiot’s manner changed in a moment from 
cringing fear to open defiance. He’s dead,” he 
cried, “ and can never beat me again.” 

Who killed him ? ” roared the sheriff, with his 
hand on the idiot’s throat. 

“ I don’t know who killed — any body,” after a 
pause. “ I don’t know — I promised — I will never 
tell.” 

The boy had fallen on his knees and was striving 
to wriggle out of the sheriff’s grasp. Get up, you 
miserable coward, and come with me,” said the 
sheriff, jerking the idiot to his feet and drag- 
ging him toward the stables where he had left 
his horse and gig. The boy, by a sudden move- 
ment, broke from the sheriff’s hold, and dart- 
ing toward the house sprang upon the ivy, and 
in a moment more disappeared through the orifice 
in the gable, and was lost to the sheriff’s eager 
eyes. 

He has escaped me this time,” thought the dis- 
appointed sheriff, as the boy did not re-appear ; 
“ and I have forgotten the keys, and can not chase 
him through the house, where I suppose he has 
hidden.” 

The sheriff essayed to climb the ivy, but as he 
saw the boy’s head protrude from the window, 
and dodge back at sight of him again, he made 
a feint of going away. He did not go far, how- 
ever, but returned noiselessly and crouched be- 
hind the corner of the house, from whence he 


124 THE 7'RAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

could hear any movement made by the boy. Pres- 
ently he heard a rustling of the ivy, and pounced 
upon the idiot just as he sprang to the ground, who, 
at his unexpected capture, filled the air with his 
outcries. 

Now, I have you, and you don’t get away again 
in a hurry,” cried the sheriff, grasping the boy’s 
arm like a vise ; “ the owner of the bay filly is dead 
and can not beat you, but the Sherift of Claire Coun- 
ty is alive yet and able to give you a thrashing every 
day in the week.” 

Beat me,” cried the idiot. I will be beat, but 

I will never tell, for he” the boy stopped as in 

fear of saying something that would compromise 
him. Beat me, I say.” 

Worn-out in his combat with the stubborn temper 
of the idiot, Martin dragged him to the stables ; the 
boy resisting at every step ; and buckling a strong 
leathern strap about the idiot’s waist, he fastened 
the other end to his own arm, while he unhitched 
and led out the horse. 

“ Did the owner of the bay mare beat you here, 
Artey ? ” asked the sheriff, hoping to draw him out 
by the power of association. 

He is dead, and he will never beat me again,” 
the idiot answered doggedly. 

‘^Joseph Farrell would never have beaten you if 
you had not deserved it,” said the sheriff, assuming 
the knowledge that it was the murdered man who 
had beaten the boy. 


THE CLEW, 125 

He is dead and will never beat me again,” re- 
iterated the idiot. 

‘^You mean Joseph Farrell will never beat you 
again ?” said the sheriff.. 

Yes, he's buried deep, deep. I saw Jim Denby 
dig the grave.” 

^‘And Jim Denby gave you a new whistle, 
when you lost the old one in Joseph Farrell’s 
room.” 

I don’t know where I lost the old one. I lost 
the old one, and Jim Denby gave me a new one. 
I like the new one best.” 

Would you not like the old one, too ? ” 

“ The old one is lost.” 

But I know a man who found it in Joseph Far- 
rell’s room, after the murder.” 

The idiot turned quickly away. 

“ I will give it to you if you will tell me who was 
with you in the room that night, and who hid the 
trowsers in the dove-cot ?” 

‘‘ The trowsers were mine : mammy gave them to 
me. I will never tell — any thing — he swore he would 
kill me, if I told.” 

Who swore he would kill you?” gasped the 
sheriff, turning deadly pale, and looking as though 
he would sink to the ground. ‘‘ I will not let him 
kill you.” 

The idiot, seeing the awful pallor of the sheriff’s 
face, cried out, Oh, you are afraid of him too, ha ! 
ha ! ha ! he will kill us both, if we tell.” 

Samuel Martin felt his strength exhausted ; he 


126 the tragedy of brinkwater. 

was no longer able to cope with the capricious 
idiot. He meant to take the boy home with him 
and place him under the influence of his mother, 
of whom he was very fond. She, no doubt, 
would be able to coax from him the knowledge it 
was evident he possessed. But would she be 
willing ? 

The journey home was a silent one ; Martin 
drove along lost in anxious thought, a gnawing 
pain sat at his heart. He had longed to find and 
help his out-lawed boy. Though he had satisfied, 
as far as money could satisfy, the crime his son had 
committed, yet there was an indictment against 
him and a reward offered for his apprehension. It 
would become his own duty, if the fugitive should 
come within his jurisdiction, to arrest him, and give 
him over to the mercy of the law. Would he come 
back ? Ay ! had he come back ? He had dared 
to hope for his return once ; dare he hope for it 
now ? For two years, in every man that looked 
behind him as he walked ; or turned a listening ear 
to following footsteps ; in every skulking shape the 
evening gloom disclosed ; in every hastening figure 
flying like one pursued ; the wretched father saw 
his wretched son. The sheriff of Claire County 
was himself a prisoner of love and sorrow ; the love 
and sorrow that was born when his son was born ; 
the love and sorrow that is as old as the first man 
and the first woman ; together they walked the 
streets with him, sat at his daily board, and 
pressed his nightly pillow ; struggle to free hirp- 


127 




THE CLEW, 

self as he might, they held him fast and would not 
let him go. 

The idiot, pleased with the idea of soon seeing 
his mother, sat quietly beside the sheriff, who held 
the leather strap with a vigilant hand, and only re- 
leased it when the boy, holding to his mother’s 
skirts, was pouring out his love and joy, forgetting 
all else in the pleasure of seeing her. 

She is his mother, thought the sheriff, and loves 
where, to others, there seems little to love. 

Keep him by you, Martha,” he said ; he has 
been trespassing, and there is no knowing what mis- 
chief he may do, or what harm will come to him. 
Do not let him out of your sight, I charge you. I 
must have some conversation with you to-night, 
upon an important matter. I will not put your boy 
in jail, but I will hold you responsible for him.” 

Martha Blunt heard the sheriff’s charge in si- 
lence ; she needed no warning ; she took her son 
to her own room and locked him in. 

Samuel Martin wanted no supper, that night, he 
told his wife : he was too tired to eat, he said, and he 
had some writing that must be done at once. He 
opened his secretary and sat with the paper be- 
fore him ; he meant to write a note to Edward 
Lawrence, Ernest Farrell’s attorney, and put him 
in possession of the facts he had discovered ; but 
his ideas were so confused, th^t he got up and 
walked the floor to collect them. I can not 
write,” he said, “ my head is as thick as a cart- 
wheel. I will see Lawrence to-rnorrow, and let 


128 the t^qedy of brinkwater. 

% 

him know every thing.” He went back, with an 
alarmed feeling, to the secretary, and took out the 
package containing the trowsers, leaving the desk 
open, and the keys hanging in the lock ; he took up 
his bedroom candle and went up to his room. He 
had a confused idea that he was going down into 
the basement to yisit the prisoners, as usual, but 
when he saw his bed all thoughts of any thing but 
an uncontrollable desire to rest, deserted him. He 
looked at the bundle in his arms wonderingly, but 
the thought of his prisoners still possessed him ; he 
raised the heavy mattress, and laid the cherished 
package upon the slats, saying, They will be safe 
there till morning,” and dressed as he was, he 
threw himself wearily on the bed, and sunk into 
a heavy sleep. 

Mrs. Martin coming up an hour later found her 
husband in this condition. How tired he is. 
Poor Samuel ! ” she said, touching him gently. 
‘‘Wake up, father, and take off your clothes ; you 
look so hot and uncomfortable.” The sleeping 
man started up wildly and looked with unseeing 
eyes at his wife. 

“I didn’t do it,” he cried excitedly ; “he didn’t 
do it ; who did do it, Mary ? ” he recognized the 
gentle presence, at last. 

“You are dreaming, Samuel; you must not 
think so much about this murder ; it is wearing 
you out.” 

“ Yes, I know, I know ; where am I ? Did you 
say who did, it Mary ? ” 


“ We are not sure yet who did it, father ; go to 
sleep now, and we will talk of that to-morrow.” 

To-morrow” — repeated the sheriff in a half 
conscious tone,, and then his troubles were only 
remembered in dreams. 




CHAPTER XII. 

THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVE. 


A fter the sheriff’s wife had seen her husband 
comfortably in bed, she went down stairs to 
fetch the infant she had left sleeping in its cradle. 
Martha Blunt had fastened the house, as usual, 
and all below. was silent. 

The thick stone walls of the sheriff’s house ren- 
dered a fire, even in summer, necessary for the 
safety of the young infant, and Mary, taking up 
the sleeping child, seated herself beside the fire 
with it on her lap to have a quiet hour of self- 
communing. Her thoughts, at first, were occupied 
with her husband, he seemed so tried and worn 
when she helped him to take off his clothes. She 
was not alarmed at his condition, however, which 
she attributed to mental worry and fatigue, 
Then her thoughts came back to the infant which 
stirred and smiled in its sleep. She was thinking 
now of another infant, her first-born. Where was 
he this summer night ? She recalled his innocent 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVE. 13 1 

baby beauty ; the little dimpled hands pressed 
against her soft bosom ; the eyes of love that 
looked upward to her own ; then the small white- 
clad figure, at her knee, with folded palms, and 
wistful, questioning gaze ; next the rosy, romping 
boy, eager for sport and mischief. Every detail 
of his young life was recalled with tender remem- 
brance. And he was gone ! the thought that she 
knew not where, wrung her heart with keenest 
anguish. She remembered his catching a fly, one 
day, and holding it clasped in his sturdy fist, as she 
opened each resisting finger, one by one, telling 
him that God would be grieved by any cruel act, 
and his laughing face grew grave, as he opened 
his hand and let the prisoner go. How glad she 
was to think he had not killed the fly ! Her warm 
tears fell on the sleeping babe ; she took its ten- 
der feet into her loving palm, God grant,” she 
prayed, that these little feet may never go 
astray ! ” 

There was a sharp, clicking sound, as of glass 
cracking, and Mary turned quickly, her heart in her 
throat. The window^ opened on the small grass- 
plat of the inner court she called her garden, but 
the sound ceased, and she turned away again. 
Presently a low voice at the window sighed. 
Mother, mother ! ” 

Who ever lifts that cry in vain to living mother’s 
ears? All her soul was* listening now as she 
leaned toward the window. Could she have been 


132 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

deceived ? Was it Dick, who, perhaps, far away 
had died, and his passing soul breathed this sigh of 
farewell as she sat there dreaming of him ? She 
thought of that mysterious tie which links the 
unborn infant to its mother ; was there not also a 
spiritual tie between the mother and her child, that 
time nor distance — ay, that crime itself, could not 
sever ! 

The cry was repeated, in a voice she could not 
mistake. “ Mother, mother, let me in ! ” 

In an instant the door was unlocked and 
opened, and Dick Martin was in his mother’s 
arms. 

I always told your father you would come 
back, Dick,” she cried through' her happy tears. ‘‘ I 
knew my heart spoke truly and you would answer 
it. How pale and thin you are ! ” Her search- 
ing gaze devoured every feature of his wasted, 
altered face. You have been ill,^ my love, and 
oh, who has abused you ? ” she cried, tracing with 
shrinking fingers, a long, red welt across his thin 
cheek. 

Yes, I haven’t been much else than sick, 
mother; we must give and take in this world,” he 
answered, thus dismissing her allusion to his in- 
jury. Then, with a frightened glance around the 
room, he asked in a* hurried whisper, Where’s 
father ? ” 

“ Your father is in bed and sleeping soundly. 
You need not be afraid of him, Dick.” 

He’s Sheriff of Claire County now,” Dick an-* 


The kETURH OF the Fugitive, 133 

swered, with a nervous laugh, ‘‘and YrnwantedyoM 
know.” 

A cloud of anxious sorrow veiled the mother’s 
tender face. “ Oh, Dick, my child, how did you 
ever come to do it ? ” Tears were in her eyes and 
in her voice. 

“ It’s a long story I have to tell,” the boy said 
evasively. “ I am almost starved ; give me some- 
thing to eat, mother.” 

“ My darling boy ! ” cried Mary Martin in a tone 
of keen self-reproach. “ You hungry, and the 
house full of victuals ! Oh Dick,” she continued, 
as she set the best the house afforded before him, 
‘‘ I have never lifted a morsel to my lips in these 
two years you’ve been away, that the thought that 
you were unfed and suffering has not imbittered 
every mouthful of food and choked me.” 

“ Ah, mother,” replied Dick, as he devoured the 
victuals she placed before him with the eager haste 
of ravenous hunger. “ I’m afraid I’ve imbittered 
your life forever.” 

“ No, no, do not think that, Dick; you have griev- 
ously sinned I know, my son, and you must pay 
the penalty, I fear, but it is far better to do this 
and become a penitent man, as I trust you will, 
than to remain an outlaw and a fugitive from 
justice.” 

The boy, a handsome, delicate looking youth of 
twenty-one or two, with restless eyes and irresolute 
mouth, darted a look of apprehension at his mother 
as she uttered these words. 


,4 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINHWATER, 


Do you mean to give me up ? ” He started 
from his chair as though he meant to fly. 

“ Richard ! ” she almost shrieked, ‘‘ do you think 
the mother who bore you could do you a harmful 
thing ? ” 

He ran quickly to the door that opened on the 
stairway, and locked and bolted it. ‘‘ I tell you, 
mother, you must hide me.’' His wild and hunted 
eyes swept the room as though in quest of refuge. 

I have dodged around here skulking and starving 
like a homeless cur, until I believe I have got my 
death.” 

He fell into a fit of coughing that racked his 
slender frame to its center, and found an echo in 
every fiber of Mary Martin’s loving heart. In a 
moment she clasped him in her arms as though in 
this safe shelter she would shield him from all the 
evil of the world. 

Do you love me so, still, mother ? ” cried Dick, 
holding her at arm’s-length, and seeing in the love 
and pity painted in her face a revelation to his way- 
ward soul. If I had known how true and good 
you were I might never have left you ; but I took it 
all as a matter of course and went away in search 
of happiness — I never found,” he added, after a 
moment’s pause. 

‘‘ Yes, Dick, happiness is often so near us that we 
do not see it, and overstep it to pursue a shadow 
that ever eludes us. I am glad you turned and 
came back to me, dear.” 

“ But, oh, mother, the shadow pursues me now,” 




THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVE. 135 

said Dick in an awe-struck whisper. Turning from 
his wild-eyed fear Mary Martin half expected to 
see the dread Nemesis that pursued her son, but 
her eyes fell on the infant sleeping in its cradle ; 
the gentle presence filled her with peace ; was not 
this other her offspring also ? 

“ There, there is nothing to harm you,” she said 
in that soothing tone one uses to a frightened 
child. Your mother will keep and care for 
you.” 

I have something to tell you before I go, moth- 
er,” Dick answered, re-assured by her calm maternal 
voice. You must manage to keep me awhile.” He 
looked around him at the massive walls. “ The jail 
is my only home now,” he said, with a desperate at- 
tempt at raillery. Mary Martin looked upon her 
son with pitying eyes. If he had come home but 
to die how glad she was to do the little that could 
be done for him. Every pore of her heart bled 
inwardly at the sight of his haggard face and at 
that cruel, recurring cough. But she did not wish 
to alarm Dick by any word or sign of anxiety about 
his condition. 

Come, dear,” she said, I will take you to the 
spare-room; it is nice and quiet there and I will 
nurse you back to health and hope again. Your 
father’s house is yours, Dick, and the best there 
is in it ; and you must not talk of going away 
again unless it be some time to a home of your 
own.” 


136 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 


' ‘^ Father must not know,” said Dick, with that 
haunted look that all the wretched have. 

Father need not know, Dick, till you get well 
and strong.” 

You will not betray me, mother ? ” his arm was 
about her waist, and the old, fond look was in his 
young, blue eyes. 

‘‘ Oh, Dick ! did a good mother ever betray her 
child. How can you doubt me ? See,” she said, 
pointing to the sleeping infant, it came to comfort 
me when my heart was breaking.” 

The young man stooped over the cradle and 
stretched out his hands as though he would raise 
the infant form, then suddenly withdrew as if 
the thought that its purity might be polluted by 
his touch, had repelled him. 

“You need not fear to wake him,” said the 
mother ; “ he sleeps well.” 

“ He has a full stomach, and a good conscience, 
no doubt. What a pity I had not died when I was 
in my cradle.” 

Mary Martin took up the child, and bade Dick 
precede her with the candle. She had thought her- 
self, a hundred times, how content she would have 
been, how much better for him, if her darling first- 
born had died in his infancy, and of the many 
illnesses she had nursed him through, and had 
groaned in spirit at the thought that he might have 
died, and did not. She led her son to a room on 
the second floor, remote from her own chamber. 
She gave him fresh linen, and when he laid his 


THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVE. 137 

head on the pillow she stooped and kissed him 
good-night. Then, for the first time, he showed 
emotion and broke into violent weeping. His 
mother smoothed the hair from his forehead, her 
own eyes strearning with a heart too full for words. 

Oh, mother, mother, if I had never left you ! ” 
he cried, in'an outburst of remorse, as a flood of 
tender recollections rushed across his soul. 

‘^You have come back, my son, repentant, I 
trust, and there is a deep joy to me in this,” said 
his mother, wiping away his tears. “ Sleep, now ; 
you are always on my mind, and I shall be ever 
near you.” 

She locked the door, as she went out, putting the 
key in her pocket, and with the now awakened baby 
she paced the corridor back, and forth, too deeply 
excited to sleep. 

Mary Martin felt she was right in keeping her 
son’s presence a secret from her over-wrought hus- 
band, who, with his stern sense of justice, would 
feel that he must give up the criminal and satisfy 
the law. The laws were made by men, she thought ; 
if they had been made by women they would be 
more discriminating. At all events, the law of a 
mother’s love was God-given, and she would abide 
by that and shield and save her son if she could. 
Martha Blunt, who had just come from the room 
where her son was confined, met the sheriff’s anx- 
ious wife in the corridor. Both women started as 
if they had been caught in a criminal act. Come, 
Martha, I want to speak to you,” said Mary 




138 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

Martin, leading the way to a small sitting-room 
at the end of the corridor. She knew this woman 
well, and had found her heart and judgment 
sound. ‘‘ Dick has come back,” she said, without 
hesitation or reluctance. ‘‘ I can trust you, 
Martha ? ” 

‘‘ I am here to be trusted,” replied the house- 
keeper, bluntly. 

“ I know that, Martha ; I do trust you. You 
have the keys of the house ; keep his room locked,” 
said the sheriff’s wife, giving the housekeeper the 
key of the door of the room Dick occupied. His 
father need not know — yet,” she continued. Dick 
is very ill, I fear, and we must bring him around 
with good nursing and good food, Martha, until 
he is able to appear, you know.” 

‘‘ I will do my best to serve you, Mrs. Martin. 
My own son was brought to this roof to-night, and 
our interests are equal.” 

Has Artey been getting into trouble ? ” asked 
the sherilf’s wife, all sympathy. 

The sheriff said something about his trespass- 
ing, and promised to speak further of it, but I have 
not seen him since.” 

Poor husband ! he has gone to bed dead-tired, 
and forgot it, I suppose. Do not trouble over it, 
Martha ; it must have been a small matter. I am 
glad Artey is with you ; we women feel re- 
sponsible for the conduct of our children ; when 
Dick went wrong, poor boy, I felt myself as guilty 
as he.” 






THE RETURN OF THE FUGITIVE. 139 

‘‘ And I have a double responsibility in my unfor- 
tunate son,” said Martha Blunt. 

There were three people who slept well under the 
sheriff’s roof that night — the infant, the idiot, and 
the fugitive. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


MOTHER AND SON. 


W HEN Mary Martin rose, after a sleepless 
night, she found her hands full to over- 
flowing — a wailing infant, a sick husband, and a 
son whose secret she must keep, and whose person 
she must conceal from the eye of the law. The 
sheriff was ill with brain fever, the doctor said, and 
must be kept as quiet as possible ; he was a very 
sick man, and it would take careful nursing and 
wise treatment to bring him through. The doctor 
showed the sincerity of his opinion by asking for 
counsel. The sick sheriff was delirious from the 
first moment of his seizure ; he talked continually 
of what had so long preyed upon his mind. The 
clew he had grasped fell from his nerveless hand. 
His anxious and troubled face expressed the utmost 
apprehension. 

I — I had it, doctor, but it slipped — oh, yes — I 
know, I locked, I locked the — oh, I thought I had 
— where, where, where are ” 


MOTHER AND SON 


14I 

The eager, questioning look in his face was pain- 
ful in its intensity. 

“ What did you have, Martin ? ” the doctor 
asked, thinking to ease the sick man’s mind by an 
answer that would, perhaps, satisfy him. 

The sheriff fixed his troubled eyes on the doctor’s 
face, and seemed to strive for a moment to collect 
his thoughts. The clew, you know: there it goes, 
way up on the gable.” He followed an imaginary 
thread with his wavering gaze. I can not reach 
it,” he said, with a hopeless sigh, clutching at the 
empty air. 

I will get it for you,” returned the doctor, 
making a feint to bring down the object that floated 
before the patient’s distracted vision ; there, I 
have it ; I will tie it to my coat button, and it can 
not escape.” 

Escape ! no, he will not escape,” exclaimed the 
sheriff, wildly ; the new idea being only another form 
of the old one that filled his weary mind. ‘‘ He won’t, 
no, no ! What was I saying, doctor ? I was say- 
ing — there, it goes again, that cobweb ! See ! 
See ! Oh, that string in the air ; if it would only 
keep still I could catch it ! ” He clutched in vain at 
the wavering illusion. The doctor plucked a strand 
from the ball of worsted lying at hand in Mary 
Martin’s work-basket, tied it to the button of his 
vest, and put the other end in Martin’s eager hand. 
The sick man’s attention, attracted for a mo- 
ment, fixed itself on the object he touched : he 


142 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 


grasped it with a jerk, and the thread broke in his 
hand. It’s nothing but a string of damned blue 
yarn,” said the sheriff, looking wonderingly at the 
doctor, who laughed, in spite of himself, at this 
glimpse of reason. 

‘‘ It’s no laughing matter, doctor,” said poor 
Martin, turning sadly on his pillow, and muttering 
his doubts and fears again. . . . 

Mary Martin’s anxious thoughts were divided 
between her sick husband and her ailing son. 

Is father very sick ? Will he be up to-day ? ” 
Dick asked with anxious concern. 

‘‘ You need not fear your father now, my son, he 
is very ill.” 

Mother, do you think I am very sick ? ” 

Not so sick as your poor father, Richard.” 

“ Does the doctor come to see father ? ” 

Oh, yes, Dick, there are two of them.” 

Will you not let one of them come to see me ? ” 
asked Dick, with solicitude brooding in his boyish 
eyes. 

Do you wish it, my son ? do you think you are 
very sick ? ” 

I am so weak, mother. I told you about the 
hemorrhage I had, didn’t I ?” 

The hemorrhage, Richard ! Have you had a 
hemorrhage ? ” cried Mary Martin, now really 
alarmed, I will call the doctor at once.” 

Bring Doctor Grantly, mother, he is a good 
man ; he won’t peach on me ! Pon’t you know, 


MOTHER AND SON. 


143 


you said he saved my life when I had scarlet 
fever ? 

Yes, he did, he did,” sighed the mother, remem- 
bering how many times she had wished Dick had 
died when he was little and innocent. The 
boy saw the trouble in her face, and calling her 
to his bedside he drew her down and kissed 
her. 

You won’t let me die, will you, mother ? ” 

Oh, Dick ! if you would get well, and become a 
good’ and useful man, I would pray on my knees, 
day and night, for your recovery.” 

‘‘ Mother, won’t you pray that I may get well, and 
— and be good ? 

Do you repent, Dick, of the wrong you have 
done ? ” 

“ What do you mean by repent, mother ? ” 

Turning awayfrgm the evil and being sorry for 
it, dear.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, no good has ever come of it. I have 
turned away from it ; I am sorry. I wish I hadn’t 
done it. Since I came home, and have seen you, 
and the baby, I seem to have had a glimpse of 
heaven, where all is peace and love. You do not 
know, mother, how much evil a bad boy finds in 
the world, and the awful temptations that come to 
him from without and from within. It is so hard 
when passion and inclination drive a fellow on, to 
know what is right, or to stop and think about it, 
until it is too late. You see the prize, or what looks 
like it, you want it so much, and the devil within 


144 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 


you cries go on, go on, till you have no will but 
his.’' 

“ But, Richard, there is a good angel ever ready 
to counsel you ” 

Yes, mother, I know ; but sometimes my good 
angel, it always wore your look, mother, covered its 

face and turned Oh, I can not talk, or think about 

it now — I must get well first. I will get well, won’t I, 
mother ? If I do, I will atone for all the sins I have 
committed I am so young ! You have helped me 
in a strait before ; you will take good care of me. 
Doctor Grantly always said you were such a good 
nurse.” 

My dear child, I will do my utmost to nurse 
you back to health, I could not do otherwise, and I 
am so glad to have you with me, even if it is on a 
sick bed.” 

Now I feel better, mother ; bring the baby, 
and let him lie beside me. I will not hurt him, 
and I can watch him for you while you attend 
to father. Mother, you’re not afraid of me, are 
you ? ” 

Afraid of you, Dick ! what do you mean, 
dear ? ” 

Why, you think there is some good in me ; a fel- 
low’s mother always thinks that, don’t she ? ” 

A mother always feels that her child, no matter 
how old, or how sinful he may be, Dick, is a part of 
herself. When you ran off, my poor boy, I felt 
that, like the Israelites of old, you were the scape- 
goat that carried my sins from me into the wilder- 


145 




MOTHER AND SON, 

ness. I became a better woman after my sorrow, 
and grew more charitable toward the erring, and 
for all who suffered. And I blamed myself, too : I 
feared I had not given you the care and train- 
ing I ought to have done. I did not think 7ny 
little boy could go astray. Your baby-sister came 
and was so delicate, that I think I made an idol 
of her, and neglected you, Dick, and let you 
get too far away from me. You must forgive me, 
dear.” 

Forgive you, mother ? you are goodness itself ! 
And I have come back to you, so I can not be 
wholly bad, though I sinned, knowing it would 
grieve you. I think that thought was ever present 
with me. But I never can tell just how I came to do 
it. Oh, mother, I am afraid to go to sleep at night 
for the dread that I will die before I wake, and the 
world will never know — mother ! ” — it was a cry of 
agony that came from the boy’s inmost heart ; say, 
now, that whatever wrong I may have done you will 
forgive me ! ” 

She was kneeling at his side, and grateful tears 
streamed from her eyes. 

Oh, God,” she cried, Thou see’st the hearts of 
all men ; as I hope for forgiveness from Thee, as I 
hope for the forgiveness of the son of my body, so 
do I freely and fully forgive him.” 

Now, mother, that you have forgiven me all, 
and have promised to pray for me, I can ask God 
to forgive and pity me.” 


14 ^ THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 


He will, my son, if your heart is contrite and 
broken.” 

It is all broken up, mother ; when I did — the 
last thing — it seemed to me the devil that raged 
so long in me flew away and left my soul a 
black and empty ruin ; then my good angel came 
back and whispered, ‘ Go home, go home,’ and 
I thought it was your voice that called me, and 
I came back, and when I called mother, you 
answered.” 

She kissed him for reply, and laid the infant 
beside him. 

*^Did you say, mother, that father wanted to 
name the baby Ernest ? ” 

Yes, Dick, he did ; but I can never have my 
baby named for a man, who, though innocent, will 
be hung for murder.” 

Mother, I tell you now, solemnly, that Ernest 
Farrell will never come to that,” answered Dick 
excitedly. 

Your poor father tried to believe so, too, Dick, 
but he could not see his way out of it ; and' he has 
got a brain fever from worrying over it.” 

Did father think that ? ” Dick asked in a tone 
of apprehension. Who did he think did the 
murder ? ” 

“ He tried, oh, so hard, to find out, but he failed 
to get any clew. I believe he thought he was on 
the track of somebody, when his strength gave 
way, and now he is delirious and talks of nothing 
else.” 


MOTHER AND SON 


147 


He doesn’t mention any names, does he, 
mother ? ” Dick asked furtively. 

Oh, no, he knows no one to name ; his talk is 
all about the clew, and some new evidence he 
thought he had : something about a pair of trowsers 
he believed he had discovered ; but they are not 
to be found on the premises, and I think he just 
imagined it.” 

The next moment Mrs. Martin was sum- 
moned by Martha Blunt to see the doctor, who 
wished to leave directions _with her for her hus- 
band’s medicine. Martha Blunt, expecting to re- 
turn immediately, neglected to lock the door of the 
room in which her son was, virtually a prisoner. 
The door was stealthily opened, and the head of 
the idiot peered round the lintel, but if he had any 
thought of escape, he abandoned it on hearing the 
voice of the parrot calling from below, Artey, 
Artey,” the bird having caught the new name at 
once. The idiot hastily closed the door, and the 
next moment was blowing handfuls of feathers 
about the room, calling them his little pigeons, de- 
lighted when any of the feathers fell on his face 
or shoulders. He had seen, with a shudder, the 
great, green parrot the evening he reached 
the sheriff’s house, and had heard its dreadful 
cry with the most abject terror. His mother 
had but to threaten him with the “ green pig- 
eon,” as he called it, to insure implicit obe- 
dience ; he was afraid to stir from his room, even 


148 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 

in her company, lest the green devil should catch 
him. 

Dick Martin, left to his own reflections, grew 
despondent again. His mother’s kindly, cheery 
presence sustained his weak, remorseful spirit, and 
when she went, all hope and peace went with 
her. 

I never would have done it but for her,” Dick 
whispered to himself ; the villain wronged her, 
and I wanted to right her ; but two wrongs can 
never make a right,” he said sadly. “ Poor little 
brother,” he continued, as he leaned over, and 
soothed the waking infant, if you have to go 
through with what I have, it would be better that 
you had never been born. You’d miss your chance 
of heaven, perhaps, but then, too, you would have 
escaped hell.” 

When the doctor next visited the sick sheriff, 
Mrs. Martin took him aside and told him of Dick’s 
presence in the house, and her fears of his serious 
illness. There needed no caution from her to 
insure the silence of the friendly and discreet 
physician.” 

What do you think of Dick’s case, doctor ? ” 
asked the mother, anxiously, after a careful examin- 
ation of the new patient had been made, and the 
closed door cut off his answer from the ears of the 
sick boy. 

He is much more diseased than appears on the 
surface, Mrs. Martin ; his bright color and lustrous 
eyes are not tokens of health. Good nursing will 


MOTHER AND SON. 149 

do more for him than any medicine can do, and I 
know I can trust you for that.” 

I will do my part, doctor,” said Mary Martin 
with a deep sigh. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE WILL. 

footfalls of the sheriff, dying in the distance, 
1 had sounded to the despairing soul of Ernest 
Farrell like the echoes of departing hope. The 
only man that cherished a belief in his innocence 
had given up his cause as lost. He must prepare, 
then, for the shameful death that awaited him. 
Prepare ! how could he prepare for such a fate ? 
He could not bring himself to contemplate, for a 
single instant, the awful tragedy that awaited him 
and his mother It was monstrous ! it was impos- 
sible ! He, Ernest Farrell, the recipient of all the 
favors wealth could bestow : loving and beloved by 
a beautiful woman worthy of his love ; surely he 
was a man to be envied, and yet, without a 
moment’s warning, despite his good-fortune and 
good name, by a train of circumstances no man 
could foresee or forestall, he was cast from his high 
estate into a dungeon, awaiting his trial as the 
murderer of his brother ! The human soul stands 
appalled in the awful presence of despair, and flies 
to the most trivial hope for relief ; the young man 
caught at the discovery, by the sheriff, of the blood- 


THE WILL. 


I5i 

Stained trowsers as a drowning man catches at a 
straw. The fact that they were his own, marked 
with his name and discovered in his own house, in 
a place where no one unfamiliar with the premises 
would have concealed them, seemed only to add 
another link to the chain of evidence already so 
strong and consistent. He must take the risk of 
being able to prove the fact that the trowsers 
tound in the dove-cot, muddy with hard riding 
and stained with blood, were not those worn by 
himself on the night of the murder, for the case 
would stand just where it did if he failed, and 
could be made no more desperate by the ven- 
ture. He must wait until morning, however, when 
the sheriif would bring him the new evidence, and 
together they would consult and decide what was 
best to be done. He tried to recall who the Brink- 
water folk were he had met the evening of his 
return from the chase ; but he remembered that 
the light was waning when he reached the village, 
and from the sheriff’s account the color of the 
blood-stained trowsers corresponded with that of 
the pair he then wore, and which he hoped to be 
able to prove, by credible witnesses, were seen on 
his person the evening before the murder. It 
would be a hazardous attempt, but he meant to 
make it, and use the discovery as the basis for a 
new hearing of the case. 

The next morning the tidings reached him, 
through the deputy-sheriff, of Samuel Martin’s ill- 
ness and delirium, and the doctor’s opinion that 


is 2 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

he would be unfit for dut)^ for weeks and, perhaps, 
months. This news was a great blow to Ernest 
Farrell. The sheriff’s faith in him was the only tie, 
save one, that linked him to human sympathy, and 
now that was gone ! The new sheriff was simply 
an officer, with an exalted idea of the magnitude 
and dignity of his office ; he was honest, respect- 
ful, humane ; but he had no opinions, no senti- 
ment ; he was there to do his duty, which the law 
defined and limited. 

There was no time for delay. Ernest Farrell 
dispatched a note to his attorney, who gladly came 
at the urgent summons of his client. Mr. Lawrence 
heard the statement of Ernest, and at first seemed 
much impressed by it ; but though he said nothing 
to discourage the prisoner, the longer he considered 
the matter the less hopeful it looked. The testi- 
mony of conflicting witnesses would simply neutral- 
ize the new evidence. But he went, at once, to the 
sheriff’s office to examine the garment and obtain 
some information, if possible, from Samuel Martin 
himself. He found the sheriff very ill and Mrs. 
Martin in great distress. The attorney questioned 
her about the package her husband had brought 
home the night of his return from Brinkwater, but 
Mrs. Martin had not seen it, and could give no 
information concerning it beyond the fact that her 
husband had talked in his delirium of the trowsers. 
She made a search, assisted by Mr. Lawrence, of 
the sheriff’s official premises with no result. She 
told the attorney that her husband had not been 


THE WILL. 


iS3 

like himself for some time, the case had so preyed 
on his mind that it had thrown him into a brain- 
fever from which she had her fears if he ever 
recovered. There was nothing more to be said or 
done, and the attorney went back to Ernest Farrell 
with this discouraging message. An attempt was 
made to interrogate the sick sheriff through his 
physician on the subject of the missing trowsers. 

Did you find a pair of Ernest Farrell’s trowsers 
in the dove-cot the night you visited his house ? ” 
asks the doctor, when a somewhat lucid moment 
made the question possible. 

‘‘Who said I found a pair of Ernest Farrell’s 
trowsers ? ” cried the sheriff excitedly. 

“ You have been saying so yourself ever since 
your illness began, Martin,” said the doctor calmly. 

“ Then I have been telling a lie, that’s all, and 
it’s the first one, too, if I remember right. Who 
did you say I told ? Where is Mary ? Where are 
my keys ? Oh, I didn’t leave the secretary open, 
did I, doctor ?” The sheriff raised himself on his 
elbow and looked wildly around. 

“ Where have you put the trowsers, Martin ? ” 
the doctor asked, gently laying the sick man back 
on his pillow and stroking his forehead with a 
composing hand, but getting no reply. 

“ Where are they, Samuel ? ” asked Mrs. Martin 
in a soothing tone ; “ tell your wife ; it is a case of 
life or death, husband.” 

“ Then I will tell you, Mary,” he whispered in 
her hovering ear, “ I found them in the secretary — 


154 '^E TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

no, I locked them in the dove-cot — no, no, I took 
them — where did I take them, Mary ? What have 
you done with my keys ? ” 

Mrs. Martin found and brought the keys to her 
anxious husband, who soon grew calm and fell 
asleep with them in his hand ; in another moment 
they slipped from his weak hoW and fell on the 
coverlet. 

‘‘ I think we had better look in the secretary 
Mrs. Martin,” said the doctor, as he picked up the 
sheriff’s keys ; it does not seem just the place he 
would put the trowsers ; but he may have done 
so, if his mind was, as you say, dazed and wan- 
dering.” 

They would be safe there, and he knew they 
would be undisturbed,” replied the sheriff’s wife ; 
go and search, doctor, and I will watch by Samuel.” 

Doctor Grantly went, and returned empty- 
handed. “ I can not find them there,” he said, I 
suspect the discovery of the trowsers was a fancy 
of the sheriff’s perturbed brain ; poor Ernest, it was 
a forlorn hope at best !” 

I am afraid, ” said the doctor, when in company 
of Mr. Lawrence, he went to Ernest Farrell’s cell, 
“ the discovery of the blood-stained trowsers is a 
fiction of the sick man’s disordered brain ; he is very 
ill with cerebral fever, and does not know what he 
is saying. His wife tells me he has not been him- 
self for days ; mental aberration often precedes 
acute mental disturbance. We have searched the 
house for them and have been unsuccessful in find- 


THE WILL, 


ing a trace of them ; the sheriff, when questioned, 
denied any knowledge of them, and only alluded 
to the discovery, in his delirium. Mrs. Martin says 
she has never seen them, which is not likely, if the 
sheriff had really brought the trowsers home.” 

Then my last hope is gone ! ” sighed Ernest. He 
remembered how distracted the sheriff had been on 
the night of his last visit to the prison, and he now 
believed that his friend’s excited imagination had 
conjured the phantom of the blood-stained gar- 
ment. 

I will use every endeavor during my attendance 
on Sheriff Martin to discover the truth of this mat- 
ter, be assured, Mr. Farrell,” the doctor said, as 
he withdrew, ‘‘ and you shall know the result as 
soon as I do.” It was a feeble hope, but hope, 
however slight, was precious in this desperate case. 

To distract his thoughts, and occupy his weary 
hours, Ernest opened the bundle of papers and 
letters which the sheriff had received from Virgin 
Grey the night of their encounter in the Farrell 
mansion. They were, for the greater part, unimpor- 
tant papers, old letters and receipts, and such 
documents as accumulate on a man’s hands in the 
course of years. He over-looked and destroyed 
them, one by one, until, to his surprise, he came to 
an unopened letter addressed to himself, in his 
father’s handwriting. Of course it must have been 
placed in his private drawer before his father’s 
death, five months ago, and the velvet of the 
drawer-lining having adhered to the fresh wax, had 


I5<^ THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATEk. 

held it in its hiding-place. To his amazement, 
Ernest found inclosed the following document : 

‘‘ MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.” 

The will contained an inventory of all the prop- 
erty of which the testator was possessed. This 
property was to be divided, after a handsome al- 
lowance to his wife, including the estate of Brink- 
water, equally between his sons Joseph and Ernest 
Farrell. It was signed by two trustworthy wit- 
nesses, one of whom had died since the will was 
executed, and the other witness was traveling 
abroad. Flis father’s signature was firmly written, 
and the fact that he was of sound mind, and unin- 
fluenced, was attested before a notary whose seal 
was added to the document. 

There was a letter, inclosed, addressed to Ernest 
and his mother, which the repentant man had writ- 
ten, acknowledging his submission to, and fear of, 
his elder son, whose influence he had allowed to 
mislead and blind him. It was a cowardly act to 
make this clandestine atonement, he said, but it was 
all his weakness would allow. This was the irony 
of Fate — a rich inheritance to two people accused 
of murder, and doomed to be hung. 

Mr. Lawrence was summoned again, and the 
will shown him. 

What a world’s pity it was not discovered 
sooner ! ” was his exclamation, on reading the docu- 
ment. 



THE WILL, 157 

Do you presume to think, Mr. Lawrence/' re- 
plied Ernest hotly, that the finding of that will 
would have made any difference in the fate of my 
step-brother ? ” 

“ No, indeed, my dear boy ! But it would have 
given another motive for the crime of his taking- 
off. If you had been in possession of the contents 
of this will, the meeting at your house, and the al- 
tercation there would not have occurred, nor the 
murder have been committed under your roof ; do 
you not see ? ” 

“ Yes, I see it all,” sighed Ernest, wearily, and 
if you can find a way out of this labyrinth of hor- 
rors for my mother and myself, this hateful wealth 
shall all be yours, Lawrence.” 

“ Do you suppose I need a bribe, Ernest Farrell ? 
I have done my utmost to serve you, and I shall 
continue to work day and night to find out the 
truth, if the truth is to be discovered in this world.” 

« Forgive me, my friend, if I seem to have grown 
suspicious of all men,” said Ernest, humbly ; but 
what is wealth to me now ? And what would not 
a man give for salvation from a shameful death ? 
If you could conceive how I have suffered ! I do 
not know why I have not gone mad, or taken my life. 
The thought of my mother and Virgin, alone has 
preserved me.” 

‘‘ I know, I know ! ” replied the faithful attorney 
with deep emotion. ‘‘ There must be a way out of 
this terrible error ; there must be, and we will hope 
until the last moment/’ 






158 the tragedy of brinkwater, 

Lawrence went immediately to the cell of Agnes 
Farrell, and told her of the finding of the new will. 

It can make no difference," she said hopelessly, 
“ to me ; I await in sad certainty, but with fortitude, 
the awful hour of execution." 

It is a foregone conclusion," said the attorney, 
as he went sorrowfully on his way ; the trial will 
be a mere form." 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE TRIAL. 

P UBLIC opinion, having had time to reflect, set- 
tled into a belief in the guilt of the accused. 
The suspense of the mystery was a burden, too 
heavy to be borne long, and the denizens of Claire 
County found the most plausible and natural theory 
of the murder, in that offered by the circumstan- 
tial evidence. 

The light of this terrible crime threw upon the 
character of Agnes Farrell a lurid glow in which 
all her past sins were revealed, and magnified. 

In the language of Betsey Driggs, who led the 
clique of female gossips, One never knows what 
silks and satins cover ; to see her in church with 
her prayer-book to her nose, and never turnin’ that 
stiff neck o’ her’n, you’d think she was a saint ; but 
I guess all Brinkwater knows now what she is.” 
There were a few in whose hearts remained the mem- 
ory of her good deeds ; the rector who had been 
the almoner of her bounty ; the doctor whose needy 
patients she had supplied with food and clothing ; 
the helpless, rheumatic Polly Lampson, who had 


i 6 o the tragedy of brinkwater, 

shared her daily drives ; these had charity for her, 
and prayed that though guilty she might be, the 
law would be merciful. 

When turned on Ernest Farrell, this searching 
light, to those who had come under the spell of his 
attractions, showed not the shadow of a flaw. 
There were those who thought that, reared under 
the influence of his mother’s passionate hatred for 
the dead man, and perhaps suspecting, or fearing, 
the deed might be done that night, yet not being an 
active partner in the crime (of that much they were 
certain), he would, somehow, escape conviction. 

He’ll never turn state’s, and convict Agnes 
Farrell,” said the leader of the clique ; ^‘he thinks 
enough of her to die with her, and fer her, if he is 
goin’ to be married to Virgin Grey, I can tell her 
that. I suppose she’d believe ’em both innocent 
agin’ the light of the Jedgment Day.” 

The Grand Jury had heard the coroner’s report, 
and the testimony of all the witnesses, and had 
brought in an indictment for murder. The trial 
was set for the coming term of the District Court, 
which was now at hand, and Benedict Strong, pros- 
ecutor for the state, announced himself ready for 
trial. The prosecutor had left nothing undone to 
secure the conviction of the prisoners awaiting trial 
for murder in Marshmeadows Jail. He had mar- 
shaled and examined all the evidence in the case ; 
rejecting what was weak or irrelevant, and put- 
ting in a strong light what was useful, and elfec- 


THE TRIAL, 


i6i 


tive. He visited the scene of the murder, and 
without seeming to talk about the case, adroitly 
gathered every item of gossip, and stored in his 
tenacious memory every thing he heard in regard to 
the conduct and character of the accused. Armed 
with the authority of the court, he went to the fam- 
ily mansion, and in the interest of the prosecution, 
secured all the documents he thought would be 
useful to his view of the case. He spent," through 
his agents, no small amount of money in prompting 
the memories of those who were found to be disaf- 
fected toward the defendants ; and finally he en- 
deavored to visit the jail, and converse with the 
prisoners : but the vigilance of Sheriff Martin frus- 
trated this infamy. He collected every ghastly 
token of the murder, and if he could have pro- 
duced the body of the murdered man, and brought 
it into court, he would not have hesitated to do so. 
He searched the criminal records for precedents, 
and studied Daniel Webster and all other authori- 
ties on circumstantial evidence ; he spent his days 
and nights in inditing and committing to mem- 
ory, not only an argument that would convince, but 
an oration that would bear before the flood of its 
eloquence, the jury, to a speedy conviction, and a 
verdict embodying the utmost rigor of the law. A 
great State was his client ; he could look at but one 
side of the case. The burden of proof rested with 
him, and if conviction could be compassed, he must 
do his utmost to convict. It was not with Bene- 
dict Strong a question of what the truth was, so 


1 62 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 

much as a question of what the truth from his 
standpoint appeared to be. He felt a professional 
pride in conducting the case to a successful issue ; 
the prosecution must not only be a success, but it 
must be a triumph which should redound to his 
forensic skill. It was his boast that no case, under 
his prosecution, however strong its defense, had ever 
escaped conviction. It behooved the plaintiffs 
then to make good their defense. 

The counsel on the other side was the very best 
the county afforded. It was safe, and eminently 
respectable, but it was handicapped by a conscience, 
by the strength of the evidence, the bitterness of 
the prosecution, and the utter hopelessness of the 
case. 

The theory of emotional insanity was decided 
upon as the only one by which the case could be 
defended. 

The defense hoped to be able to prove that 
the son had no knowledge of, or hand in the mur- 
der, and that the mother, driven to desperation by 
passion and despair, under the recent provocation, 
had in a moment of mental aberration, committed 
the awful deed. Suspecting the line the defense 
would be likely to take, the prosecution endeavored 
to forestall the plea of insanity. No member of 
Mrs. Farrell’s family had ever shown the slightest 
taint of insanity ; on the contrary, they were shown 
to be a strong-minded, well-balanced race ; shrewd 
in business transactions ; lovers, makers, and 
keepers of money. They were passionate an(^ 


i63 




THE TRIAL, 

quarrelsome under provocation, and the hot blood 
that fermented in their veins had been transmitted 
to the woman who had committed the murder. It 
was shown that some generations previous, an 
ancestor of the accused woman, in a dispute about 
property, had killed a man, and that love of power 
and wealth, and the homicidal tendency were well 
known to be hereditary. 

The whole country-side was alive to the interest 
of this important case. Every available shelter 
was secured by men and women who came from 
far and near to attend the trial. The court-room 
was packed, the people swarming up to the jury- 
box and to the very footstool of justice. The 
journals of distant cities sent their representatives 
to give a full report of each day’s proceedings, and 
it is from the columns of these veracious papers 
that the truthful account of this trial is taken. 

The accused seemed to have few friends. Re- 
ligion, fashion, respectability, are summer birds that 
the breath of dishonor scatters, like autumn 
leaves before the winds of heaven. One pale girl, 
with a flower-like face and violet, tear-stained eyes, 
entered alone and took her seat beside the accused. 
Agnes Farrell, her deathly pallor augmented by 
her dress of deep mourning, sat*with closed eyes 
as though the light were too painful a thing to look 
upon. She was greatly changed ; the beauty that 
once had so distinguished her, was gone ; her bril- 
liant eyes were dim and cavernous ; her face was 
deeply worn by lines of suffering and pathos ; her 


164 THE TE AGEEV OF BRINKWATER, 


once jet-black hair was streaked with white ; her 
whole aspect was one of a resolute spirit that 
would not falter till the end, though the struggle 
had cost almost life and reason. After the visit of 
her son to her in prison, calmness, if not peace, 
returned to her. For his sake she braced herself 
to meet the trial, and she performed it as a duty 
that must be met with dignity. 

Ernest sat at her right hand white as sculptured 
marble, but resolute and apparently composed ; a 
slight nervous twitching of the lips alone betraying 
his agitation. He held his mother’s right hand 
clasped in his, and at short intervals spoke in a low 
voice words that were intended for her ear alone. 
He turned a grateful look on Virgin when she 
entered, flushing to the temples at the thought of 
indignity to her. At the sight of this pathetic pic- 
ture the tide of sympathy turned at once in favor 
of the accused. 

A young, handsome, interesting man of family 
and wealth, of hitherto unblemished name, the 
affianced husband of a beautiful girl, who of all the 
world alone was faithful to him, a suffering mother, 
perhaps a criminal, who was prompted to the deed 
by a great provocation, held up to execration as the 
perpetrators of a foul crime whose punishment was 
an ignominious death, was a picture to make the 
angels weep. And pitying women did weep, each 
putting herself in the place of the two before the 
bar, ere a word of testimony had beer given. If 
human sympathy could have acquitted Agne$ 




THE TRIAL 165 

Farrell and her son, they would have gone 
free. 

Thanks to the efforts of Benedict Strong, there 
was to be no delay in securing a jury. It was 
impanneled with the usual formality of a challenge 
or two, but the challenged men were soon replaced, 
and the jury-box was speedily filled by the twelve 
men who were to decide on the fate of Ernest and 
Agnes Farrell. 

The court opened amid breathless silence. 

‘‘Guilty or not guilty?” demanded the solemn 
voice of the judge. 

Agnes Farrell, assisted by her son, rose to her 
feet ; her lips essayed to speak, but they uttered no 
sound. 

“ Not guilty^ your honor E 

It was Ernest Farrell’s voice that broke the 
death-like stillness. 

Every head was thrust forward to catch a glimpse 
of the prisoners in this trying moment, and when 
the question was answered in the negative, a 
long sigh of intense relief arose from the specta- 
tors. 

The prosecutor had secured a record of the tes- 
timony offered before the Grand Jury, which was 
remarkably clear and straightforward. It was the 
pleasure and duty of Benedict Strong that this evi- 
dence should not be weakened or contradicted, 
and by skillful cross-examination he produced more 
and better testimony for his side of the case than 
the witnesses themselves were aware of. 


1 66 the tragedy of brink water, 

James Denby was the most recalcitrant, and 
the hardest to manage. He insisted that it was 
Joseph Farrell's face he had seen at the window, 
for of this he had persuaded himself, though he 
was obliged to reluctantly admit that the face seen 
was muffled by the hands, which ‘‘ point ” Bene- 
dict Strong made the most of. 

Hannah Wraith’s testimony was reckless, and 
under cross-examination contradictory. She broke 
down utterly at last, and amid tears and protesta- 
tions, declared that the man she saw leave the 
house and return by the back-door was Ernest 
Farrell. 

This evidence made a great sensation, but the 
cross-examination by the defense proved that it was 
too dark to distinguish color, or feature, or even 
the apparel worn by the person seen descending the 
cellar with a bundle, so that this apparently im- 
portant evidence was ruled out and the woman 
released, indignant at the idea that her sworn testi- 
mony was not to be received. 

The housekeeper’s testimony was much more 
guarded than when she appeared before the coro- 
ner. But she, too, became confused, under cross- 
examination, and when asked by the prosecution if 
she believed her mistress was a sane woman on the 
evening of the twentieth of June, answered, ‘‘As 
sane as I am.” 

If Agnes Farrell was a guilty woman, she had the 
air of being a very frank and candid one as she 
gave her testimony, which made a favorable impres- 


ThR triaL^ 


167 

sion.on the jury. . She only faltered when asked if 
she had seen her son after they had separated for 
the night; the instant hesitation only accented- 
with greater emphasis her firmly enunciated 
“ NoT 

Ernest’s examination was by far the most trying 
that any of the witnesses were subjected to. The 
evident desire of the defense to shield him, and if 
possible clear him of the crime of his brother’s mur^ 
der, served but to instigate Benedict Strong to the 
use of all his legal ingenuity to trap and criminate 
him from his own mouth. He was forced under the 
most torturing cross-examination to rehearse the so- 
called quarrel in the library the evening before the 
murder, and in his endeavor to be just to the mur- 
dered man, Ernest Farrell failed to convey to the 
jury half the provocation and injury he and his 
mother had received at the hands of Joseph Far- 
rell. 

The ignorant spectators, most of whom had never 
attended atrial for murder before, watched the pro- 
ceedings with the most intense interest. The gen- 
eral hope was that the evidence would not be sus- 
tained ; there was a prejudice against convicting on 
circumstantial evidence alone ; but when the testi- 
mony was all in, the cross-examination ended, and 
such rebuttal offered as was possible, it did not 
need the labored arguments of the defense, nor the 
fiery eloquence of the prosecution, to convince the 
most hopeful that conviction was a forgone conclu- 
sion. It seemed needless cruelty then for Benedict 


1 6 8 7 he TRA GED Y OE BRINK IV A TER. 

Strong to add to his overpowering arguments and 
summary the following peroration : 

Gentlemen of the Jury, the evidence is before 
you. Although circumstantial, the chain is complete: 
not a link is wanting. Able counsel for the defense, 
begging the question of guilt, have endeavored to 
set up a defense of the accused on the ground of 
emotional insanity, with what little success you have 
seen. Your sympathies have been appealed to in 
the name of youth, beauty, and love, pictured be- 
fore you ; but, gentlemen, this is not a sensational 
drama ; we are not before the footlights to view a 
pre-arranged tragedy where men and women simu- 
late vice and virtue. 

No, this is a real tragedy in real life to be tried 
before a court of justice which, like the Creator of 
the Universe, is no respecter of persons. 

Murder is as old as the world, the first man 
born into the world murdered the second one, and 
they were brothers ! 

“Almighty Justice, stooping from His high estate, 
marked the fratricidal wretch and sent him a flying 
fugitive through all the ages, and his guilty footsteps 
echoing down the corridors of time still smite upon 
our ears. 

“ Gentlemen of the Jury (with a long fore-finger 
of scorn pointed at Ernest, who faced the terrible 
speaker with unblenched gaze), behold the modern 
Cain, who, unlike the Cain of old, did not approach 
his brother awake and in broad daylight to strike 


THE TRIAL. 

the death-dealing blow, but in the silence and dark- 
ness of midnight, the stealthy assassin armed with 
the murderous knife, and the sleep-yielding draught, 
stole to the couch where his victim lay sleep- 
ing, and adding a double element of weakness 
to his already unprotected and unsuspecting state, 
severed, with one fell blow, his head from his 
body. 

“ The red hand of murder placed its seal upon 
the hand of the murdered man to say the deed was 
done. The good, kind, elder brother who came 
with offers of peace and reconciliation, for reward 
met his death ; for a benefit offered, his blood was 
foully shed by the man in whose veins the same red 
current flowed. And from what motive was this 
murder committed ? from the basest of motives — 
the love of money ! It was not the deed of a ne- 
cessitous and desperate outcast, famishing for a 
crust to satisfy his starving soul, but the deliberate 
act of a well-fed, well-housed man ; a man who never 
had a whim ungratified in his life, and who, outrag- 
ing hospitality, brotherly love, humanity and justice, 
throwing off all restraint, lowering himself below 
the level of the beasts of the field, slaughtered his 
own brother, under his own roof, helpless in sleep — 
for a paltry sum of money ! Gentlemen of the Jury, 
what punishment is adequate for so base a crime ? 
1 leave it to your intelligent sense of justice to de- 
clare. 

‘‘ And if so base a thing in this pampered youth, 
how infinitely baser the crime in a woman. She, in 







Tj^lE TEA GEE V OF BRINKWATEE, 

whose breast flowed the milk that nourished this 
viper, she was a fit accomplice of the deed ! Mother 
and son ! how tender the relation, how divine the 
love ! but prostituted by this lust of greed, the 
mother’s milk turned back and, poisoned at its 
source, armed his strong hand to do the murderous 
deed. Mother and son linked in love and linked in 
infamy, not divided in their lives, let them in their 
death be not divided. Gentlemen of the Jury, I 
rest my case.” 

When Benedict Strong sat down, pale with the ex- 
citement his own eloquence had produced, there was 
a deathly stillness in the court-room. The specta- 
tors seemed spellbound. Agnes Farrell, with her 
hopeless gaze lifted, looked afar, and seemed 
unconscious of her surroundings. The last terrible 
words of the prosecutor wrought a fearful change 
in Ernest Farrell : his face blanched to an ashen 
hue, and bore the lines of intolerable anguish. He 
.still clasped his mother’s hand, but he dare not turn 
his despairing eyes on her face. Virgin Grey sat 
white and rigid, with hard, tearless eyes, as though 
she were turned to stone. It would have almost 
seemed merciful if a bolt from heaven had stricken 
dead these three tortured and suffering beings. 
The closing speech of the defense sounded tame 
and superfluous. No one followed it. The whole 
vast audience was under the spell of Benedict 
Strong’s terrible arraignment. The judge’s charge 
was direct and explicit. The consideration of 
a reasonable doubt was urged upon the jury, 


THE TRIAL. 




171 


and the great murder-case was given over to their 
decision. *A shuffling of retiring feet broke the 
dread silence, and the jury filed out : there was an 
absence which seemed intolerably long to the 
inmates of the prisoners’ box. 

They’ve hung,” whispered a man to his neigh- 
bor. But leaving the jury-box was only a for- 
mality. The jury slowly entered : the foreman 
holding aloft a written verdict. The court rose : 

Gentlemen of the Jury, look upon the prisoners. 
Prisoners, look upon the jury.” Their eyes met, 
there was a moment’s pause — Gentlemen, what is 
your verdict ? ” asked the court. The foreman 
answered amid a silence that could be felt : 

We find the p7'isone7'S at the bar guilty of 7nurder 
in the first degree T It was signed by the twelve 
men. Have you any thing to say ? ” asked the 
judge of the accused, in a faltering voice. There 
can nothing more be said,” answered Ernest 
Farrell. 

Then I sentence you, Agnes Farrell, and you, 
Ernest Farrell, to be each, and separately, hung by 
the neck until you are dead : and may God have 
mercy upon your souls. 

Each spectator in the crowded audience looked 
at the judge as he uttered the awful sentence, as 
though his own life hung in the balance. A 
wailing cry, like the last agony of a broken heart, 
came from the prisoners’ box. Agnes Farrell had 
fallen on the floor in a dead swoon. 

The painful tension of the last hour was broken, 


172 THE TRAGEDY OF BRim<WATER. 

and there was a movement and murmuring among 
the crowd as of a tumult. The emotions excited 
by the trial had been so exalted that men felt some- 
thing more, or less, than a simple recommitment of 
the prisoners was due themselves. The suspense 
that must precede the execution of the sentence 
seemed intolerable. 

‘‘ If that sentence ain’t soon carried out, there’ll 
be but one execution ; the old lady looks as if she 
weren’t long for this world,” said one brutal 
speaker, as the crowd slowly pressed from the 
building. 

I never see a woman hung yet,” said another. 

And I’ve got to see my fust man.” 

“ Heaven pity them, for man will not,” said a 
gentle-faced old woman, to whom the sorrows of 
life had brought Christian charity. 

“Human sympathy is very precious,” said 
Doctor Grantly, as he watched the crowd pour 
from the court-house, just opposite his office door, 
and press around the carriage that bore Agnes 
Farrell and her son back to prison, “but human 
curiosity — and where one begins, and the other 
ends, it is sometimes diffieult to define — is a fearful 
thing.” 

“ So they’re to be both hung,” cried Betsey 
Driggs, when the news of the sentence reached 
Brinkwater; “ I guess Jim Denby ’ll dig both them 
graves after all.” ' 

“ I won’t believe it till it comes to the worst,” 
said the grave-digger sorrowfully, as with bowed 


THE TRIAL. 


173 


head he took his homeward way through the church- 
yard. ‘‘ In the course of natur’ I’d be willin’ to do 
it, but I’ll do it under protest, if I have to do it in 
this case, sure.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


AFTER THE TRIAL. 

W HEN Agnes Farrell reached her cell, after 
the awful ordeal of the trial, she was in a 
state of utter prostration. The deputy-sheriff, who, 
being a bachelor, had little knowledge of woman- 
kind, and their wonderful powers of endurance, 
was greatly alarmed at her feeble condition, and 
summoned Doctor Grantly, at that moment in at- 
tendance on the sick sheriff, to see her. 

I fear she will die on my hands, doctor,” said 
the deputy-sheriff. 

It’s a pity that she could not,” returned the 
doctor. 

He found the wretched woman suffering from 
nervous prostration ; her state being the re-action 
from the long agony of the trial. The doctor gave 
her a composing draught and advised the sheriff 
not to allow Mrs. Farrell to be left alone that 
night. 

Do you fear she will lay violent hands on her- 
self, doctor ? ” 

** Pray look at the matter from a less professional 


AFTER THE TRIAL. 


175 

point of view, sheriff, if you can ; she is a woman, 
and needs a woman’s help and sympathy, that’s 
all.” 

I know, doctor, but it’s my duty to prevent — ” 

‘‘Yes, yes,” said the doctor impatiently, “ there 
can nothing of the kind happen with her, rest as- 
sured of that.” 

Martha Blunt was sent for to watch beside the 
prisoner, being known to the deputy-sheriff only as 
a capable woman of great nerve and many resources. 

She kept her solemn vigil, looking by the dim 
light of the solitary candle like a grim, expectant 
Fate. Her thoughts were full of pity and tender- 
ness, however. “ I would save her if I could, yes,” 
thinking of some means of self-destruction, “ I would 
help her to tJiat^ even. I would open the prison 
doors, and let her go ; but it’s no use to think of 
such a thing : she is too proud to escape punishment 
by a crime or by an act of cowardice. If she were 
cast upon the world where could she go ? Who 
dare receive her ? The law would only drag her 
back again. If she could but die here, and now ! ” 
The housekeeper’s thoughts wandered off to a 
subject that she dare not translate into words. “ If 
I thought she could — if I thought he would have 
been her tool — something he has said convinces me 
he knows something ; but he could not have done 
it alone, he is but a child ; he hated this man, though ; 
the key was taken by some one familiar — I have 
been afraid to question him for fear that she — if it 
could be, then there is no human being who would 


176 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 


not, under such temptation and provocation, have 
committed the crime. I could scourge myself if I 
cherished the belief, and yet — and yet he alone 
knew the way — he always put on that gaudy gown 
whenever he saw it — he knew where the cellar key 
hung ; he was not afraid in the night — if he did — 
then she — oh, how can I suspect, even under my 
breath, my loving mistress and my poor, idiot boy ? 
I will not think of it lest I go mad ! 

The prisoner sighed and turned in her cot. All 
evil thoughts fled from the mind of the faithful 
housekeeper like birds of ill omen, at the sound of 
that beloved voice. Martha was at the side of her 
mistress in an instant. 

I am here, dear friend and mistress ; your old 
housekeeper, Martha ; can I do any thing for you ? ’* 
Agnes Farrell fixed her eyes on the sympathetic 
face bent. above her. She put up her hand and took 
hold of the brooch at Martha’s throat. 

“ I gave you that, did I not ? It was a Christ- 
mas then, after a pause, that is a beautiful cus- 
tom of remembering the blessed coming of the 
Christ-child into the world by giving our friends a 
joyful token.” 

Yes/’ said Martha, in a choking voice, remem- 
bering her unworthy thoughts, it is beautiful, and 
you never forgot me, dear Mrs. Farrell.” 

And you, too, Martha, remembered me.” 

“ May God forget me, if I am ever unmindful of 
all your goodness to me — and mine,” sobbed 
Martha, 


AFl'ER THE TRIAL. 


177 




When the Holy Infant was born in that lowly 
place at midnight, and the stars sang together, and 
the wise men came with their precious offerings. His 
sweet, young mother did not dream of the awful 
fate that awaited Him ; did she, Martha?” 

Oh no, oh no,” wailed Martha, weeping, think- 
ing only of another mother and son. 

“ And if she had, if she could have foreseen it, do 
you not think, do you not believe, Martha, that she 
would have been willing and glad to save Him from 
all the pain and shame of such an ignominious 
death ? ” 

“ Yes, I believe she would. I know she would.” 

And if a poor, weak, erring, and sinful mother, 
such as I am, would seek to save her fair young son, 
so good, so innocent, and so beloved, do you think 
that it would be a sin, Martha ? ” 

‘‘ No, it would be a duty.” 

Yes, a holy duty,” cried iVgnes Farrell, her pale 
face lighted with a gleam of joy ; and if she could 
remove the stain from him, if she could ; and if in 
doing so she should augment her own sin, still it 
would be her duty, Martha ? ” 

It would be her duty to do her utmost,” said 
Martha, not following Agnes Farrell’s thought. 

And, if the sin of the mother should be so great 
that God Himself would not forgive it, do not you 
think the heavenly mother,” here she raised herself 
in the narrow bed, and throwing her arms around 
the neck of her faithful servant drew her ear toward 
her lips and whispered, you know she was a mother’, 




17S THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

Martha, and would she not plead for this poor 
earthly mother when she appeared before the bar of 
God, that she might be forgiven at last, and that 
she might be found worthy to be restored — to — her 
son — in — Heaven ? 

Martha could answer only through her tears. 
There was a long silence. Agnes Farrell was 
communing with her own thoughts, and silently 
praying for strength. 

Now I am really hungry, my dear, faithful 
Martha,” she said at last, ‘‘ can you not get me a 
crust of bread ? ” 

Too glad to serve her mistress, Martha hastened 
to make a cup of tea, and some delicate toast, with 
which she soon returned, and was surprised and 
delighted to find that Mrs. Farrell relished it with 
an appetite. She saw Martha regard her with 
pleased interest. 

You are glad that I am able to eat, are you 
not ? My mind, so long tossed and distracted, is 
now at rest, and nature asserts herself. Thank you, 
dear Martha, for all you have done for me. I may 
seem cold to those who do not know me, but you 
have found the warm place in my heart. Let me 
tell you now, my child, that in that drawer,” point- 
ing to the deal table that served her as a desk, you 
will find my last wishes written, and I look to you 
to see that what is expressed there is carried out.” 

I will, I will ! ” cried Martha Blunt. 

And,” continued Agnes, in a low voice — ask 
the sheriff if it is a painful death — my son must 


AFTER THE TRIAL. 


179 


not see — and, will you cling to me, Martha, you are 
my only woman-friend, till the end, and see that no 
indignity is offered to this poor body — when I am 
dead ? ” 

Martha could not answer. She threw herself 
passionately across the feet of her mistress, in a 
transport of hysterical grief. 

See, I am calm, Martha, this ordeal must be 
faced, and I have looked at it so long that it has 
lost, in some degree, its terror. I know my good 
name must suffer, for a while, but in the end, all 
will be well.” 

Now, rise, Martha,”said Agnes Farrell,in an au- 
thoritative tone, ^‘and go to bed. I shall need 
nothing more to-night.” 

It does not hurt me to lose sleep, you know, 
Mrs. Farrell, I am used to it, and would rather 
stay.” 

But I can be more comfortable, if I know you 
are comfortable. Martha, do as I wish.” 

The housekeeper was too accustomed to obey 
that commanding voice, to hesitate, and bidding 
her mistress good-night she left her alone. 

She talks about saving him,” Martha said to 
herself, as she mounted the prison stairs, perhaps 
she can. She is a woman to do what she under- 
takes. I never knew her to fail.” Later, when she 
went to look upon the slumbers of her idiot son, 
she murmured, ‘‘ There’s nothing I would not do 
for my poor injured boy ; mother’s love is rnother’s 
love, the world over/' 




CHAPTER XVII. 


ERNEST S DREAM, 



HEN released from the strong restraint he 


V V had imposed upon himself in the presence 
of his mother, Ernest Farrell gave way to woeful 
despair. The agony of hope was over, the sentence 
was passed ; he was doomed to a felon’s death. He 
sat down on his cot, and buried his face in his 
hands. To die, so full of life, and hope, and love ! 
To give up all the chances of the future ; all the 
world might bring to him, all that he might bring 
the world, to lay it down qnknown, untried for 
what ? A noble cause ; his country’s honor ; a 
human life ? No, alas, no ! to meet a shameful death, 
to leave a tarnished name, to leave the woman of 
his love to be pointed at as a felon’s bride. It 
could not, should not be ; it was too monstrous to be 
thought of for a moment ! He rose and walked 
about his cell as though he would find in motion an 
escape from his dreadful thoughts ; but there was 
no escape ! As he paced back and forth despair 
kept step with him : he saw the awful end, and then 
all thought of self was banished in a moment at 
the recollection of his mother. She, the beautiful 






ERNESTS DREAM. l8l 

high-born, heroic Agnes Farrell, hts mother to 
stand beside him in such a shameful death ! He 
thought of the long array of martyred women, who 
had gone to their death as innocent of crime as she ; 
but their names had grown brighter with the flight 
of years, and no blemish remained to dim their 
glory. But she, his loved, and loving mother 

At that moment, the deputy-sheriff looked in to 
see if the prisoners were comfortable for the night. 
Ernest eagerly asked for news of his mother. 

“ She is sleeping,” replied the officer, the doc- 
tor has given her a composing draught, and Mrs. 
Blunt is with her for the night,” the man turned 
away. 

A composing draught ! Ernest thoughts flew, 
at once, to the phial Sheriff Martin had put into his 
hand, and which he had placed out of sight in his 
table-drawer. He opened the drawer, and took it 
out. Here was hope in this black drug, as the 
sheriff had called it. ‘‘ It shall never come to that 
for her,” he said, thinking of all the hideous para- 
phernalia of the scaffold. 

“ No, if self-murder is confession, if it is cow- 
ardice — it is a decent and dignified death, at least, 
and that is all there is left for either of us, in this 
world. 

Oh, Virgin ! my love,” he cried, as a flood of 
passionate recollection sw^pt over his soul, how 
will your poor broken heart bear all this agony 
and shame ! ” 

He sat down before his table: there, he saw 


182 the tragedy of brinkwater. 

had been placed in his absence, paper, pen and ink. 
What message had a man in his position to leave 
the world ? He only saw three words that burned 
before him like vivid lightning. I am innocent^ 
I am innocent^ I a7?i ifDiocent I ” Who would believe 
the words of a man condemned for murder, even 
though angels, trumpet-tongued, should blow it 
from the heavens ! Self-control at last resumed 
its sway from sheer exhaustion, and when the jailer 
came in the early morning with the prisoner’s 
breakfast, he saw Ernest Farrell, with his head 
dropped on his outstretched arms upon the 
table. A shaft of sunlight streaming through 
the grating burnished the beauty of his golden 
hair. The scene was so touching, the expres- 
sion of the prisoner’s pale face so peaceful, the 
man started back in affright. I wonder if he is 
dead ? ” was his first thought. He was not dead, 
but dreaming. 

He dreamed he was a homeless, friendless wan- 
derer through all the world, pursued by an unmer- 
ciful fate that drove him on and on ; there was no 
rest, no peace, no escape ; ever and ever, day and 
night, he must flee before this pursuing presence ; 
alone, through cold and storm and darkness, till 
utterly exhausted, he reached a stream that must 
be crossed. His fate was pressing close behind 
him, and he dare not pause. He saw a boatman 
near the shore who said, I will carry you over and 
give you peace and rest, if you will give me your 
life and good name.” 


ERNESrS DREAM, 183 

Peace and rest ! Ah, that is what I have long 
l)een seeking ! ” cried the young man. 

“ Then come with me,” replied the boatman. 

There could be no delay ; the dreadful enemy 
was close at hand. Ernest stepped into the boat, 
the boatman pushed into the stream and glided 
down. A baffled laugh followed them from the 
shore. They glided on, with hardly ,a sense of 
motion, down and ever down the stream; oblivion, 
mingled with a dim, blissful prevision of the future, 
steeped his senses as they entered upon a sea on 
which the sun shone warm and where sweet-scented 
airs kissed his closed eyelids. All was rest and 
peace, all his sorrows were forgotten ; a rapt joy 
held him entranced and expectant. 

This is the blessed country,” said the boatman, 
and they landed on a green and flower-decked 
shore, where the very air breathed gladness. 
Ernest turned to speak, but boat and boatman had 
vanished. He looked around him and felt what, at 
rare intervals, human emotion soma:imes yields, a 
transport of joy, at the mere fact of existence. He 
saw spread before him a country such as no mortal 
vision ever saw. On one side, where a fair sap- 
phire sea laved its base, rose a smooth, green, ter- 
raced mountain to the clouds. Upon its side wan- 
dered and fed many sheep with their young, and a 
shepherd with a tender lamb in his bosom, led the 
way up to the shining heights. I will follow the 
Good Shepherd,” said Ernest. He found the way 
easy and delightful ; the Shepherd’s voice was 


1 84 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINK WATER, 


saying, ‘‘ I am the way — follow me.” And as 
Ernest lightly ascended, feeling the vigor of youth- 
ful life in every limb, he heard another voice, and 
looking around he saw his mother just beside him. 
She said, “ My beloved son, I thought the way was 
impossible, but all things are possible with God.” 

The jailer’s entrance woke him, and Ernest, lift- 
ing his head with the radiance of that blessed 
vision lighting his pale face, asked, “ Is it morn- 
ing ? ” 

The man set down the tray he bore, in amaze- 
ment. “ I wonder why he looks like that ? No 
guilty man could look so like an angel ! ” 

Can I do any thing for'you, Mr. Farrell ? ” he 
asked. 

Tell my mother all is well with me ; that is all, 
thank you.” The man lingered ; he, too, was 
young and full of lusty life ; his heart was wrung 
with pity for the youth so soon to die. I want to 
say, Mr. Farrell, that I ain’t here from choice ; a 
man must earn a living somehow, these hard 
times.” In his awkwardness he could not express 
the thought he had in his mind. 

A man can make an honest action fine by the 
way in which he does it,” said Ernest, essaying to 
help the poor fellow to his meaning. 

I know that, somehow, but what I wanted to 
say was — ” here his voice broke down — “ that I 
don’t believe that you could have done that mur- 
der, any more than I could have done.it.” 

Ernest rose and took the poor boy’s hand with a 




ERNESl'^S DREAM. 185 

feeling of pity for him. Heaven has made us all 
compassionate, else human life would be intol- 
erable,” he said. 

His eye fell on the phial that had dropped from 
his relaxing hand. A feeling of exultation swelled 
his breast ; he seized it as if it had been a viper, 
and throwing it through the grating, heard it shatter 
into fragments on the flags below. He had con- 
quered the bitterness of fate ! 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE MEETING IN THE CELL. 

N O day passed that did not bring Virgin Grey 
and Martha Blunt together. It was through 
the housekeeper’s faithful hands that all communica- 
tions to her imprisoned friends passed. The 
sheriff’s illness and the deputy-sheriff’s inexperience 
rendered the offices of the housekeeper absolutely 
necessary. She came and went between the pris- 
oners and the outside world as one having 
authority. 

‘‘The deputy is gone for the day, and I have 
charge of the prison ! ” she said to Virgin, who had 
come, as was her daily wont, to bring messages and 
receive tidings of her friends. 

Martha looked at the young girl significantly. 
“ Will you go ? ” she asked. The girl was on her 
feet in an instant. “ Is he ready for me ; does he 
wish it ? ” were her eager questions. 

For Ernest Farrell, despite all his doubts and 
fears, had hoped the trial would offer some means 
of escape. There were none, and he had begged 
the privilege at last of seeing Virgin in his cell. 
The shock to her which he so much dreaded, the 
shame to himself of being seen in such a shameful 


THE MEETING IN THE CELL. 


187 


place by the woman he loved, must be met. It was 
their only place of meeting now ; some last words 
he must say, some last wishes express to her. 

Martha Blunt conducted Virgin to the cell, and 
at last she was alone with her lover. Ernest felt 
the deepest emotion as Virgin entered, bringing to 
that dark and cheerless place an air redolent of 
youthful freshness. A vision of all he had lost in 
life came in at the open door with her sweet pres- 
ence. Spring’s green gladness and bird-songs, and 
flowers, the bright and rapturous aspect of nature, 
rushed upon and over-whelmed him. 

“Oh, my love, my love,” he cried, “God has 
forsaken us, but you remain faithful ! ” 

She was in his arms, and for one brief moment 
the wretched past was blotted out. 

“ This is a dark and dreary place,” said the 
young girl, looking around her, and shuddering at 
the prison gloom to which her eyes were unac- 
customed. “ I had believed it more cheerful.” 
His heart thrilled at the tender inflections of her 
voice, so long denied him. 

“It is indeed a dark place for your bright pres- 
ence, dearest,” he answered, clasping her fair head 
in both his hands, and looking down fondly into 
her tender, upturned face, filled with a wistful 
sorrow. 

“ Where you are, my promised husband, is the 
place for me,” she answered gently. 

“Promised husband!” he cried passionately. 
“ Oh, promise never to be fulfilled in this life 1 ” 




1 88 the tragedy of brinkwater, 

“ Yes, dearest ! ” she said, it is of that I came 
to speak. I will become your wedded wife, and 
bear through all my life your honored name ! ” 

Can you mean this, dear heart ? Will you stand 
up before the world and take for life the name of a 
condemned murderer ? ” 

Hush, dear love, such words applied to you 
have no meaning for me. You are my noble, 
guiltless Ernest ! ” 

But the law condemns and proves me guilty.” 
The law is not infallible ; it has made such ter- 
rible mistakes before.” 

‘‘ Then your trust and love remain unclouded ! ” 
They shine the brighter for this ordeal.” 

Thank God, that in one faithful heart love and 
pity live for me ! What will you do my, poor, stricken 
love — ^when I am gone? ” 

‘‘What will I do?” she cried, losing the self- 
control she had struggled so long to maintain. 
“ What will I do ? I will spend every moment of 
my life and every dollar I can command to prove 
you innocent, and having proved it,” she raised her 
lovely eyes to heaven — “ I will live to prove it — I 
will be buried by your side.” 

“ Ah, this is compensation indeed ; I can die in 
peace, leaving my good name with you ! ” 

“ Do not speak of dying, dearest ; a thousand 
things may interpose before it is too late.” 

“ It is already too late ; all the formalities of the 
law have been complied with ; only the dread hour 
awaits I ” 




THE MEETING IN THE CELL. 189 

I will believe until the last hour that there is 
hope/’ 

‘‘ Dear love, prepare your mind for the separation 
that must come.” She was clinging to his neck 
now and sobbing convulsively. 

Oh, my love,” she cried, ‘‘ if I could go with 
you, how willingly, how joyfully would I go ! ” 

No, it is right, my Virgin, that you remain 
awhile ; life at best is short. You can do for me 
what I can not do for myself — vindicate the 
memory of my mother ; the thought of her fate is 
for me the sting of death ! ” 

Oh, Ernest, I have not forgotten her ; poor, 
poor mother ! But she will not be left to mourn ; 
there is happiness in that.” 

And will there not be happiness in living and 
doing my last behest, dear love ? ” 

Not happiness, dear Ernest ; happiness can 
never visit your poor Virgin again ; only duty, 
duty ! ” 

‘‘ Then let duty be your aid and comforter in the 
dark hours that are to come ; remember I ask this 
of you. Virgin ! ” 

‘‘You shall not be disappointed. I will not fail 
you, Ernest.” 

Her lover placed a sealed letter in the young 
girl’s hand. “ I have written you many letters, 
dearest, but none so sad as this one.” 

She kissed the missive, fondly looking into his 
face with woeful, compassionate eyes. 

“ One wish, I will repeat to you with my lips ; 




190 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

when the last hour comes, see that niy mother ” 

he could say no more, for the first time since the 
tragedy he burst into passionate weeping. 

The violence of his grief calmed Virgin at once. 
“ I will, I will,” she cried, “ dear innocent, martyred 
woman ; is she not my mother also ? ” His head 
was on her bosom, and she soothed him with that 
divine maternal love that is born in the heart of 
every woman, to be poured like balm on the bruised 
and bleeding hearts of the suffering children of 
men. 

My darling, my darling, it breaks my heart to 
see you like this. Do not die of grief ! I can not 
bear to leave you thus ! ” 

Forgive me, m^y Virgin ! this dreadful thought 
has unmanned me. I am very weak to distress you 
so. Your visit has indeed comforted m.e, and eased 
my burdened heart. Remember, love, that you have 
never made me any thing but inexpressibly happy ; 
my last earthly thought shall be of you, my earliest 
awakening one of Virgin; for believe me, dear love, 
that to one who has so long faced death, the things 
of this life seem vain and transitory compared to 
that which we shall receive hereafter.” 

I will come daily to the last— your words being a 
strange comfort and peace, Ernest, and I need them. 
I am a poor, weak girl when left to myself.” 

You shall not be alone, sweetheart — I will be 
ever near you.” 

With a long lingering embrace they parted : it 
was their first and last meeting in his cell, and 


THE MEETING IN THE CELL. 19 1 

Virgin went out from the presence of her lover, as 
Eve went forth from the heavenly garden, leaving 
the blazing sword of a broken law flaming behind 
her. 




CHAPTER XIX. 

THE GALLOWS. 

T he current of time flowed on, and brought the 
dreadful day, for the execution of the sen> 
tence of Agnes and Ernest Farrell, nearer and 
nearer. 

Men, and horrible to believe, women, ordered 
their affairs to the end that this day should be a 
day of leisure, not a holiday, nor a day of pleasure- 
seeking, but a day given up to the contemplation of 
an awful spectacle, such as comes to one but once 
in a life time. “ The hanging ” was to be open to 
the public, for it was thought necessary to make 
an example ” of the authors of the most dastardly 
crime that had ever been committed in the annals of 
Claire County. Fathers determined to bring their 
sons, that they might profit by the warning this 
young man’s terrible end afforded : mothers 
arranged to bring their daughters to see a woman 
die, who had broken the laws of God and man. 
There was no little curiosity mingled with this 
puritanical pretense of self-improvement. Men 
and women were not hung every day, there might 
never be another opportunity to gratify this morbid 


THE GALLOWS. 


193 


taste for the horrible, and it was well to make the 
most of this opportunity. The gallows was erected 
by a man expert in the building of these supposed 
necessities of our Christian civilization, and loomed 
almost under the shadow of the church tower : a 
hideous object in the midst of a beautiful land- 
scape. 

Little children mounted with their innocent feet 
the steps that led to the fatal drop. 

I'll never kill a person,” said one precious 
prattler, as she toilfully climbed the steep stairway, 
“ I wouldn’t be hunged for any thing.” 

I’d run away,” said a boy in his first jacket, 
who thought it was a manly thing to do under the 
circumstances ; I’d run away, and I’d never come 
back, neither." 

But God would find you anyhow,” said Sissy 
Young, ‘‘and I wouldn’t ever do such a thing, ’fi 
was you. Tommy.” 

“ I ain’t a-goin’ to do such a thing,” said the 
manful Tommy, not quite sure in his own mind, 
whether it was the murder, or the flight, that he for- 
swore. 

“ I don’t want to even see ’em hung ; mother 
says it’s too dreadful ; we can see the gallows from 
the porch where the honeysuckle grows. There’s 
two eggs in the robin’s nest now. Tommy ! ” said 
Sissy, with that easy transition of ideas common 
to the young. 

“ When there are three^ I’ll ” the boy made a 

suggestive pause, 


194 THE TRAGEDY OF BKINKWATER. 

You’ll whaf? ” exclaimed Sissy, in an agony of 
apprehension. Tommy went through a pantomime 
on the gallows’ post, of climbing up, and robbing a 
bird’s nest. 

You won’t neither. Tommy Scott, if you rob 
b-b-b-b-birds nests when you’re l-l-l-ittle, you’ll 

” Sissy was sobbing with both chubby fists 

in her eyes. 

^‘You’ll, you’ll what now?” asked the boy, 
aggressively. 

‘^You’ll b-be a b-bad, wicked m-m-man,” sobbed 
the girl. The pleasing prospect of coming to 
manhood, even with a smirched character, placated 
the threatening Tommy, and he said in a soothing 
tone, It’s just like a. girl to cry, I didn’t say I was 
a-goin’ to rob your old bird’s nest.” 

“ Oh, Tommy,” said Sissy, beaming now like the 
sun through her rain of tears, ‘‘they are so cunning, 
the little blue eggs ; and the mother robin is so 
proud.” 

“ What are you doing there, you little rascals,” 
shouted the deputy-sheriff, as he saw the children 
standing on the scaffold. 

“ We — just — wanted — to see,” said Sissy, tod- 
dling down in fear and trepidation at the sound of 
the authoritative voice ; timing her timid words to 
her hurried steps. 

“ Oh, yes, like all your sex, you’re ' just wantin’ to 
see,’ ” said the officer, piercing the little maiden’s 
soul, with stern, official eyes. “ Get away, both of 
ye. I suppose if any apples grew on that frightful 


THE GALLOWS. 


19s 


tree you’d be just wantin’ to taste ’em, too ! It 
makes me think of the time I went to Virginy, a 
year after the war,” soliloquized the deputy, “ a mile 
or so out of Charlestown, when I saw an old howitzer 
twined round with wild mornin’ glories, and its 
throat stuffed with a bird’s nest : — the whole brood 
flew out as I passed, screaming and whizzing, and 
I dodged as if they had been hot shot — as I had 
dodged many a time before. That old howitzer 
sung another tune during the war, and many a poor 
fellow died of its music.” 

The children scudded away before the harmless 
officer’s gruff words : Tommy looking back and 
uttering with a fearful joy, I wish it was him ’stead 
of Mr. Farrell ! ” while Sissy contented herself with 
the more feminine utterance, as she continued her 
flight, of, Mean old thing ! ” 

Agnes Farrell, in these last days, wrote contin- 
ually. She gave the deputy-sheriff, one morning, 
a heavily-sealed letter. “To be handed to Miss 
Grey,” she said. 

The deputy-sheriff took the package, and at a 
glance saw written : “ For Miss Virgin Grey., to be 
opened and read after my death'' 

“You will see to it yourself that this letter 
reaches Miss Grey ? ” 

“ I will certainly deliver it in person, Mrs. Far- 
rell.” 

“ And this,” said Agnes, giving the officer another 
lettei'j “ to be sent to my attorney, at once," She 


196 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 


looked at the man with clear, steadfast eyes, and 
seeing no hesitation in his face, added, It is very 
important.’* The sheriff went his way and fulfilled 
his promise. 

Virgin, with blinding tears, locked her precious 
missive in the place where she kept her most sacred 
treasures, knowing well that Agnes Farrell’s last 
words to her would be as true as Holy Writ. 

Counselor Lawrence read the letter addressed to 
him, as he sipped his morning coffee, in the sun- 
bright, flower-fragrant breakfast room, where the 
canary poured a flood of song that made the sun- 
shine seem brighter. He read the letter in amaze- 
ment, and dropped his head upon his hand ; the 
sun-bright room went out in utter blackness. 

Have you bad news, Edward ? ” asked the anx- 
ious voice of his wife from behind the coffee urn, 
seeing distress painted on his face. 

Bad enough, Cornelia, dreadful ! dreadful ! ” 

Mrs. Lawrence rose and coming to her husband’s 
place leaned over his shoulder and read : 

Agnes Farrell^ do solemnly aver before God, 
and by all I hold sacred, and as I hope ultimately for 
my souVs salvation, that I, unassisted and alone, without 
the knowledge of, or connivance of any other person 
or persons whatever-, did, on the night of June twen~ 
tieth, under my own roof a7id of my own will and 
purpose, murder 7ny step-son, Joseph Farrell; and to 
this confession, freely made, I a7n 7iow ready to have 
the seal of the notary placed, m the presence of what- 
ever witnesses the court 77iay elect. 

^‘Agnee FarrellJ 


THE GALLOW^S. 197 

“ Can it be possible ! ” exclaimed the attorney’s 
wife, in a shocked voice. 

She certainly ought to know ; the testimony 
was of the strongest kind, complete and consistent. 
I never thought we had the shadow of a case ! ” 
What will be done now, Edward ? ” 

Agnes Farrell will certainly and righteously be 
hanged.” 

I pity her, but I am so glad Ernest Farrell is 
innocent ; I could never bring myself to think for 
one moment that this beautiful and noble-looking 
young man was guilty.” 

‘‘ You women are governed a great deal too 
much by good looks ; the greatest criminal I ever 
saw looked exactly like a model clergyman.” 

But even clergymen do naughty things some- 
times ; do you not remember, dear, Mr. Green — ” 
There, Cornelia, stop — he was only a sharper.” 
I never thought Ernest Farrell looked the least 
like a clergyman, Edward ; he always reminded me 
of one of those antique statues, let me see, was it 
in the Vatican ? Yes, was it not Antinolis, that was 
the image of youthful, manly beauty ? ” 

Rest assured, Cornelia, Ernest Farrell will not 
escape through his good looks ; he must have a 
hearing, however, and if his mother’s confession is 
sustained, on cross-examination, he will be set at 
liberty. Mrs. Farrell gave the impression through- 
out my interviews with her, before the trial, that 
there was some concealment. I questioned her 
closely, without result ; but during the trial she was 


19 ^ THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 

composed and guarded, and I thought no more 
about it. Her confession will be a blow to her 
son, of that I am sure. Although the evidence 
criminated him equally with his mother ; and our 
fight to exculpate him seemed to make matters 
worse. If the crime turns out to be only half as 
bad as the worst, we have something to be thank- 
ful for.” 

Edward Lawrence went without delay to the 
prosecutor, and together the two men went to see 
the judge. 

‘‘ I am not surprised,” said the judge ; “ the evi- 
dence could not be impeached. I am glad the 
young man had no hand in the murder, it is bad 
enough as it is.” 

‘Mt remains to be seen, judge, if Ernest Farrell 
is innocent,” said the prosecutor. I'f the woman’s 
confession explains the evidence against her son, 
he must be pardoned.” 

The confession explains nothing; it is a simple 
confession of the deed,” said Lawrence. 

It is a pity she did not make it sooner,” replied 
the prosecutor, remembering his wasted eloquence. 

Well, you could not have gotten off you-r Cain- 
and-Abel story, if she had. Strong,” said Lawrence. 
Perhaps the judicial presence alone saved Law- 
rence from a caning on the spot. 

Let the hearing be had to-morrow, gentlemen ; 
we can not too soon make reparation for the mis- 
take of convicting an innocent man.” 

An innocent man, and the heir of his father,” 


THE GALLOWS. 


199 


thought Benedict Strong, as he went his way. 

However, I did my duty, the evidence convicted 
him — well and perhaps I had something to do 
with it. It is not every lawyer that succeeds in 
convicting the guilty, and to convict art innocent 
man requires some unusual skill. But we shall see. 
I may trap her/* 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE HEARING. 

T he court had appointed the day following the 
reading of Agnes Farrell’s confession for the 
hearing of any new testimony she might bring to 
the case, in going over the old evidence, and com- 
paring it with the new. 

The prisoner was conducted to the court-room at 
her own request, alone. The judge, the attorneys 
on both sides of the case, the deputy-sheriff, a 
few old men, early risers, who straggled in at every 
open public door ; and a vigilant reporter of local 
items for the Claire County Gazette^ comprised the 
audience. Rumor was not yet astir. 

Agnes Farrell entered with a composed air, and 
a look of resolute courage in her face, which had 
aged past all recognition by those who had known 
her as a beautiful, youthful-looking woman of for- 
tune and fashion. She seated herself before 
the judge’s desk with a slight inclination of her 
still stately head ; for, as Brinkwater folks said, 
“ Agnes Farrell held herself like a tree ; it would 
take a hurricane to make her bend below the neck.” 
All eyes were instantly fixed upon the prisoner as 


THE HEARING. 


201 


she turned her own toward the judge. The court 
had just been discussing the theory of emotional 
insanity set up by the defense. Each man, as he 
looked at this proud, defiant woman, dismissed from 
his mind forever any possibility of convicting her 
of insanity. 

Footsteps were heard moving in the corridor 
and as the mother felt the approach of her son it 
seemed as though all the blood in her body rushed 
in a tide of crimson shame to the roots of her gray 
hair ; she did not move, or turn her head, but 
looked before her with stern, unseeing eyes ; the 
receding blood left her face more deathly pale 
than ever, as she braced herself against the seat 
and tightened the rigor of her clinched hands. 
Ernest Farrell drew near, shaken with an emotion 
he could not control, and burdened with a sorrow 
that made all that had gone before seem pitiful 
indeed. Still she did not move, save for a tremor 
that vibrated through all her frame. 

Her son was at her feet. 

Mother ! Mother ! ” he cried. 

‘‘ Kneel not to me, Ernest Farrell,'* she said 
brokenly ; do you not know the truth ? " 

“ As there is a God in heaven, mother, I know the 
truth, inasmuch as it is known to either of us ! ’* 
Agnes Farrell addressed the judge : Is the 
notary ready to receive my affidavit ? ” It seemed 
for an instant as if her fortitude must give way 
before the strain upon it. 

The notary entered as she spoke, and, in the 


26 ^ the tragedy of BRINKIVATER, 

presence of the witnesses set his seal against the 
firmly- written signature of Agnes Farrell. As 
he followed her movements with anxious eyes, 
Ernest pressed his hands upon his heart as though 
the anguish throbbing there would break it. 

He saw his mother place her name to a sworn 
avowal of her guilt. She, to whom the truth was 
sacred ; who looked upon a falsehood as the 
meanest, the most degrading of sins. Was it true ? 
the mother that bore him, a self-confessed mur- 
deress ! For a moment the awful thought over- 
whelmed him ; he bowed his head as though the 
shame had been his death-blow, then he raised him- 
self proudly, almost defiantly. He looked before 
him as though he clearly saw a way out of this 
dreadful strait ; his teeth were clinched, his breath 
came hard, with expanding nostrils, and he threw 
out his hands as if he broke the fetters that 
bound his senses. But his love for his mother and 
his faith in her innocence were stronger than crime ; 
stronger than shame ; stronger than death itself. 
In that awful moment of doubt, his soul-lit vision 
saw revealed the weakness of human nature, the 
narrow limit that divides virtue from vice — one 
step and the hand of temptation stretched forth 
draws us over, and consenting, we are lost ! There 
was a divine pity in the anguish that wrung his 
heart for the woman who had periled all for his 
dear sake ; -his only thought was for her, to com- 
fort and sustain her through the valley of the 
shadow of a felon’s death. No thought of igno- 


THE HEARING. 


203 


miny reflected from her to him, moved him in that 
awful moment; he would gladly have died to save 
her. He sat down beside her and took her locked 
hands in his. The examination began : 

“ Agnes Farrell, you declare, upon oath, that you 
murdered your step-son, Joseph Farrell, on the 
night of June twentieth, alone, without the aid, 
knowledge or connivance of any other person or 
persons ? ” 

No one looking upon the prisoner now could 
doubt her guilt. She turned deathly white, and 
writhed in her seat as though stung with intoler- 
able remorse ; her mentaj anguish was so great 
that the court paused as if expecting the soul of the 
guilty woman would escape in the throes that 
racked her frail body. The bailiff brought a glass 
of water and moistened her lips ; a window was 
thrown open to admit fresh air, and Agnes raised 
her mournful eyes and fixed them on the square of 
azure. What she saw there, what mortal tongue 
shall say ? Was it a vision of holy angels conduct- 
ing her enfranchised soul to a world above the 
struggle, and pain, and anguish of this, to the blessed 
peace and rest of Heavenly seclusion ? 

The question which the court repeated fell un- 
heeded on her ear. She sat with strangely smiling 
eyes, as though the blissful vision had caught her 
senses away, and wrapped them in oblivion. At last, 
as if communing with her own soul, she softly spoke: 
“ I know that my Redeemer liveth ; I know my sin 
shall be forgiven me ; I know my son shall be re- 


^04 TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

Stored to me at the last day.” Her whole aspect 
was so transfigured, her words so foreign to the 
earthly powers before which she sat, the court, 
seemingly aware that Agnes Farrell was responding 
to a higher tribunal, sat in breathless silence as 
though with her awaiting a final vindication. 

At this moment the judge arose to welcome the 
governor, whom he had summoned by telegraph 
the day before to be present at the hearing of Ag- 
nes Farrell’s confession, as an act of justice to 
Ernest Farrell, who was well known to him, and to 
expedite the cause of justice. The governor had 
made all possible speed and arrived just in time. 

The prisoner, now restored to perfect conscious- 
ness and composure, the examination was contin- 
ued : 

You murdered Joseph Farrell with your own 
hand, you say ? ” 

She bowed her head and buried her face in her 
hands. 

“ Answer ! ” 

“ I did ; I did ! ” her voice sounded so strangely 
shrill the court turned to see if another had not 
answered. 

You knew what your act meant, and involved ? ” 
asked the court, moved out of its composure by the 
piteous sight of Ernest Farrell’s woe. 

‘‘ I think I am doing right — I thought I was — ” 
she corrected herself. 

You are not here,” interrupted the prosecutor, 
‘Ho vindicate your act, but to corroborate your 


THE HEARING.- 


205 


confession, and give such testimony as will ex- 
onerate your son from any knowledge of, or com- 
plicity in the crime, which you avow you committed 
without his knowledge or consent ? 

The words of the prosecutor indicated her reply, 
and she answered calmly and firmly : 

I am, your honor.” 

‘‘You used chloroform before you used the 
knife ?” 

“ I did.” 

“You hid the bloody knife and garments in the 
cellar ? ” A moment’s pause. 

“ I hid them there.” 

“ Did you see your son just before you commit- 
ted the murder ? ” The court listened with bated 
breath. 

‘‘Nor 

“ Did you see him just afterward ? ” 

“Yes — asleep — I went to his room to tell ” 

her words died away in a whisper. 

“ Why did you not tell him ? ” 

“ My heart failed me.” 

“ Then he did not awake at your approach ? ” 

“ No, no ; he did not.” 

“ How do you account for the. blood on his bed 
linen ? ” 

“I must have dropped it there.” 

“ Did you intend to implicate your son ? ” 

“ Oh, no, no .^ ” 

“ Were you not aware that under the circumstan- 
ces your act would criminate him ? ” 


2o6 the tragedy of BRINKWATER. 


I thought of but one 
And that was ? ” 

Our wrongs.” 

Did you not know that the murder would be 
discovered, and you and your son would suffer for 
it ? ” 

‘‘ I thought of all that afterward^ 

“ Why was your confession not made before the 
trial ? ” 

I hoped every thing from the trial.” 

“ And then you delayed your confession ” 

Till it could be delayed no longer,” she hur- 
riedly answered. 

“ And you are willing to take the consequences of 
your act ? ” 

I am willing.” 

Under the most crucial cross-examination, Agnes 
Farrell never faltered in the testimony that sealed 
her death-warrant. She answered every question 
categorically, never contradicting herself, and 
growing calmer as the investigation proceeded, her 
answers prompted the court to closer inquiry. 

The passionate protests of her son, which from 
time to time he essayed, were silenced by the court, 
and he sat a helpless and tortured spectator, see- 
ing, as in a horrid phantasmagoria, the processes 
of the law, conducting his mother to her awful 
doom. 

At last the examination was ended. 

Have you a confession to make, Ernest Far- 
rell ?” asked the prosecutorj as the young man 


THE HEARING, 


207 


nervously arose and advanced to the judge's seat. 

Have you aught to say why judgment should 
not be passed on your mother ? " asked the judge. 

“ I have, your honor,” cried the young man 
passionately, throwing himself at the feet of the 
judge, and clasping his knees. “ I have ! My 
mother is mad ! She should not be held account- 
able for her words. Look at her ! She is dying 
with grief and shame. Your honor knows her con- 
fession can not be true. She is sacrificing herself 
through her love of me. Far God's sake, if this is 
justice, take my life also ! I swear to you she is 
innocent, she is innocent.” 

Agnes Farrell arose, erecting her tall figure to its 
height, and raising her right hand, said solemnly, 
“ I am guilty y 

Ernest Farrell djd not stir from his posture of 
abject prostration at the feet of justice — he had 
found merciful relief in oblivion. 

The governor, powerfully moved by this heart- 
rending scene, with a thrill of fear raised the fainting 
youth ; in his heart he had already pardoned him, 
to which he soon added the official sanction and 
gubernatorial seal. Benedict Strong having waived 
a motion for a new trial, an order was given for 
the immediate release of Ernest Farrell. 

As she heard the words of pardon, a gleam of 
joy, like a wintry sun, lit the face of the condemned 
woman : she stooped and pressed a farewell kiss 
on the lips of her still unconscious son as she went 
put of the court-room bowed down beneath a load 


2 o 8 the tragedy of brinkwater. 


of crime and shame. She would never hold up 
her head again ; the hurricane had swept over 
her, and the haughty Agnes Farrell was laid low 
forever. 

****** 

The news of Mrs. Farrell’s confession reached 
Brinkwater early in the day, and was the magnet 
that drew all the village folk together. There was 
an intense feeling of relief : a murder had been 
committed in their community, the law had proved 
it, as only the law could, and now came the ac- 
knowledgment. 

Circumstantial evidence had been supplemented 
by confession, and Brink water’s sense of justice was 
satisfied. 

She took her oath on it, and with all her faults, 
I never knowed Agnes Farrell to tell a lie,” said 
Jim Denby. 

There was genuine rejoicing over Ernest’s par- 
don. I knowed he was innocent. I alius stuck to 
that^'" crowed the grave-digger. 

“ Now none o’ yer flappin’ o’ wings, and cock- 
a-doodle-doin’ afore the rain’s over, Jim Denby. 
Ye jist guessed it, like the rest of us,” cried Betsey 
Driggs. 

Only some of the rest of us guessed t’other way, 
you know, Betsey,” retorted Jim. 

One w’d think grave-diggin’ had given ye 
second sight, Jim, ye seem so mortal gifted. / 
alius heard as moles was blind.” 

Them as won’t see ’s the blindest, Betsey,” 


THE HEARING: 


209 


I s’pose Agnes Farrell ’ll insist on bein’ buried 
at Brinkwater. I don’t see how the church-yard ’ll 
hold em both^" said Betsey, changing the subject to 
one in which she thought she had the advantage. 

“ The church-yard ain’t objectin’ as much as ye 
air, Betsey Driggs, and this is a matter that’s too big 
fer you and me : we’d better leave it in the hands 
of the Lord, where it belongs,” replied Denby, mov- 
ing off to escape further controversy. 

That old grave-digger’s onbearable,” was 
Betsey’s parting thought, as she went on her way. 

Every time he digs a grave in Brinkwater church- 
yard he thinks he’s diggin’ a hole clear through to 
heaven, and 's on intimate terms up there, but I 
guess there’s holes, and holes,” she said. 


CHAPTER XXL 


AT THE lawyer's. 

A fter his mother had left the court-room, 
Ernest Farrell sat like one stunned. The 
judge approached him with extended hand ; no, it 
would not do to congratulate this man who looked 
like a lost soul that the fiat of the Awful Judge of 
mankind had doomed to endless punishment. He 
gave no sign of life ; if he could have been turned 
to stone there, his mighty ‘agony would have made 
remotest ages weep. 

Mr. Lawrence took him by the arm and gently 
led him away ; he followed, unresisting, unknowing, 
as one walks in a dream. When they got outside 
they found the whole town alive ; rumor was 
winged ; the news flew from mouth to mouth ; 
knots of men gathered' on the street-corners were 
discussing it ; the small boy arrested on his way to 
school by the excitement in the streets, formed in 
line, ready to join in an impromptu procession ; 
house-maids stood agape, and all Marshmeadows 
knew that Agnes Farrell had confessed to the mur- 
der, and her son had received his acquittal. 

I always knowed, somehow, it would turn out 


AT THE LAWYER'S, 


2II 


that way,” said the first gossip, “ Agnes Farrell’s 
had murder in her heart fer twenty year.” 

I am heartily glad the young man’s innocent 
anyhow,” said number two, who had some human 
charity. 

Yes, he may live to be a useful man, now his 
mother’s to be taken from him, and he’s got his 
father’s money. Strange that such a mother should 
have such a son.” 

His father’s money’s only been a curse, so far ; 
it’s to be hoped he’ll make better use of it than the 
others did.” 

“ I wonder what Virgin Grey will do now ; do 
you think she’ll marry a man whose mother’s hung 
for murder ? ” asked a young girl-gossip. 

She stuck by him when he was condemned for 
murder, and she’ll marry him if his mother does 
hang,” was the answer. 

Well, I’d hate to have my children know that 
their granny died at a rope’s end,” she said. 

The carriage of Mr. Lawrence rolled by. Ernest 
had stepped into it involuntarily and only spoke 
when they reached the home of the attorney,, where 
they were rapidly driven. 

Not here, Lawrence,” he said, when, at last 
he saw that he was not being conducted back to the 
jail, “ the roof that shelters my mother is all my 
wretchedness asks.” 

But you can do her no good there, Farrell,” 
said the attorney, stepping down, and offering 
Ernest his hand. 


212 the tragedy of brinkwater. 


I can be near her at least/* sighed the young 
man. 

Come in with me, Ernest, a little while,” an- 
swered his friend pleadingly, my wife expects you, 
and you need counsel and sympathy just now.” 
He seemed to have no energy to resist. Mrs. Law- 
rence met him at the door with outstretched hands 
of welcome. She uttered not a word, but her ten- 
der eyes were swimming in tears, and she put up 
her sweet, matronly face and kissed him. 

Oh, Edward,” she said that night, as she awoke 
her husband. I can not sleep for thinking of him. 
He has been walking the floor the whole night, and 
when he stops, my heart stands still for fear — ” 
She finished the sentence in a whisper with her lips 
to his ear. 

No, he will not do that^ Cornelia ; he will live to 
see his wretched mother decently buried, and to 
vindicate her memory, for he truly believes she 
is innocent. And there is Virgin Grey, you 
know.” 

Oh, yes, poor child ! what will she do ? ” 

“ If she is the girl I take her to be, she will marry 
Ernest Farrell at once.” 

But, Edward, how can she take hvs name with 
that dreadful stain upon it ? ” 

My dear, I think in these few months Virgin 
Grey has outlived the poetry of love and has come 
to the plain prose now. They may make together 
a noble poem of life, and I believe they will, all the 
nobler, too, for this bitter experience. What 


AT THE LAWVEHS. 


213 


would you do-undersuch circumstances? Ask your 
own heart, Cornelia.” 

If it were youy Edward,” she said, putting her 
fond arms around his neck, I think, yes, I am 
sure, I would marry you.” 

Well, thank heaven, my love, that we have not 
been put to such a trial,” he said, kissing her 
troubled brow. 

The lawyer rose, dressed himself, and went to 
the room of the stricken man. They talked until 
the morning sun shone in at the windows, and when 
Mr. Lawrence closed the door of his friend’s cham- 
ber and met his wife in the breakfast-room, he 
told her of all Ernest Farrell meant to do. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A DEATH-BED CONFESSION. 

T he sheriff lingered in a low form of fever that 
followed acute inflammation of the brain. He 
had grown calm as he grew weaker ; but his wan- 
dering thoughts no longer revolved around his 
prisoners and their fate. His talk now was wholly 
of his absent son, whom he saw before him contin- 
ually in some desperate peril from which the 
unhappy father endeavored in vain to rescue him. 
Sometimes it was from the mast of a ship he saw 
him hang ; sometimes it was an approaching train 
that rushed down upon him ; again it was the edge 
of a precipice from which he fell, or an abyss that 
ingulfed him. 

At first, Mary Martin feared her husband had by 
some means discovered Dick’s presence in the 
house ; but the sheriff never questioned her about 
their son, and she came to know it was only the 
old trouble, so long concealed, that his delirium had 
brought to the surface. 


A DEATH-BED CONFESSION, 21 $ 

Dick was rapidly sinking. 

They are both running a race with death/' said 
the doctor to Martha Blunt, ‘‘ and there is no tell- 
ing which will reach the goal first." 

He’s hanging from that yard-arm, Mary/’ said 
the sheriff one day, with a look of horror in his 
face ; ‘Hhere is nothing under his feet ; if the yard 
breaks he will fall into the sea. Oh, it looks like a 
gallows ! ” Or sometimes he was far away and 
homesick, and he would ask piteously, “ When will 
I get home, Mary ? I have been gone such a 
weary time. This seems to be an endless road : 
these wheels have been running over my heart so 
long! Can’t you stop them, Mary ? ’’ 

But the wheels were running more slowly now, the 
sheriff had passed the crisis, and the danger was 
over. 

The doctor told Mrs. Martin that Dick’s days 
were numbered, and the end might come at any 
time. 

Dare I tell him, doctor ? Oh, I must let him 
know. He has repented, I am sure, but I must 
know if he dies willingly and happy." 

It can make no difference, now, what you tell 
him/’ said the doctor, “ I think your son knows he 
is done with the things of this world, Mrs. Martin." 

“Why do you look so sorry, mother?" Dick 
asked, as Mary Martin bent over him with the 
divine compassion that appears in the face of every 
mother as she surrenders her offspring to the cold 
embrace of that presence we call Death. 


2i6 the tragedy of BRINKWATER, 

I am sorry, Dick/’ 

Sorry for me^ mother ? ” 

Oh, sorry for myself, Dick.” 

Is father worse, mother ? ” 

Father is better.” 

Then it’s me that makes you sorry for your- 
self ? ” 

Yes, dear.” 

“ I have never made you any thing but sorry, 
mother ! ” 

‘‘ Don’t say that, Dick. I was a glad and proud 
mother, when you were born, my son.” 

And you will be glad, mother, when I am 
dead ! ” 

“ No, my child ; I must mourn.” 

Dick lay thoughtful for a long time after this 
conversation. He knew his hours were numbered. 
Then he said : 

Mother, I have watched the doctor’s face, and 
know he thinks I can’t get well.” 

I know, Dick,” she sobbed. 

‘‘ And now I must atone as far as I can for the 
wrongs I have done. I will ask you, dear mother, 
to go away for a little while, and send the deputy- 
sheriff and the notary here. I should like to talk 
to them first. I wish Artey was here.” 

Artey is here, Richard.” 

‘‘Then, after a while, I must send for him, top.” 

The sheriff and the notary came into the room 
soon afterward. Dick was propped up on his pih 
lows, white as the linen that covered them. 


A DEATH-BED CONFESSION. 217 

I am ready to take your deposition/' said the 
notary, seating himself at a table and taking out 
his paper and ink. He turned toward the dying 
boy. 

‘‘I killed Joseph Farrell,” gasped Dick, with a 
desperate determination to have the worst over at 
once. 

‘‘ Had you an accomplice ? ” asked the startled 
officer, who had just a few days before attested 
Mrs. Farrell's confession. 

^^Yes, I had.” 

Who ? ” 

Artey Blunt, the idiot.” 

‘‘ Was there a woman concerned in the case ? ” 

Yes, a woman was at the bottom of it all.” 

‘‘ Mrs. Farrell ? ” 

“ No, no, not Mrs. Farrell, she could not have 
been.” 

Who was the woman ? ” 

Margaret Merrill. I had best tell the story 
from the first,” said Dick. I can get on faster.” 

Go on,” replied the notary, and remember you 
are under oath.” 

I mean to tell the whole truth,” said Dick. 

I loved Margaret Merrill; she was older than I was, 
but I loved her from the time I was a school-boy, 
when she was a pretty and soft little thing with 
golden curls and cheeks like roses. She was so 
good to me and helped me with my lessons, and al- 
ways came to my aid when I got into trouble, 
which was pretty much all the time. I meant to 


2 I 8 THE TRA GED V OF BRIMKWA TER. 

marry her when I was able, for I did not believe 
she cared any thing for Joseph Farrell, who was al- 
ways hanging around her on the sly. Well, they 
went off together at last. I knew he had promised 
to « marry her, but I did not intend he should if I 
could help it. I forged that note you know about, 
sheriff, and got the money, and followed them. I 
could not find them in New York where I tracked 
them, and I knew as soon as I came to my senses, 
I was liable for arrest, and I dared not go home, so 
I shipped before the mast in a vessel that was going 
out on a two years’ cruise. I knew Margaret was 
lost to me, and I must look out for my safety now. 
When we got back to port my health was broken 
and they would not allow me to go out with the ves- 
sel again, so I wandered about New York awhile, 
hoping to find Margaret. I was so changed by 
sickness, and the hardships of the life I had led, that 
the Claire County folks would not have known me 
if I had gone back : but I was afraid to see father. 

‘‘ I was walking the streets, one night, when I saw 
a woman and a man in front of me who were walk- 
ing very slow and talking earnestly. They stopped 
under a lamp-post and I saw the man give the 
woman some money and walk rapidly away. I 
caught up with her and found it was Margaret Mer- 
rill, but she did not know me. I spoke to her and 
she looked round and said : ^ I know your voice, 
but I do not know your face, sir.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Oh, Margaret, I am Richard Martin,’ I said. 
She was so glad to see me though she knew I was 




A DEATH-BED CONFESSION. 219 

a forger. I told her I was an outcast and had no 
place to go. 

“‘lam an outcast too,’ she answered ; ‘ that man 
who has just left me, saw me and his child turned 
into the street. I have earned a humble shelter 
since, Dick, and if you will share it with me, you are 
welcome. I earn a little money with my needle, 
and I beg from him when I happen to meet him, 
which is not often.’ 

“ ‘ Didn’t Joseph Farrell marry you, Margaret ? ’ I 
asked in a rage. 

“ ‘ He imposed upon me with a mock marriage, 
Dick. I believed it all right and you can guess the 
rest.’ 

“ She was so changed and old, that it broke my 
heart to see her. I had a little money and I gave 
it to her, for I knew she would make it do more 
than I could. 

“ Margaret's health broke down at last and our 
little stock of money was soon gone for medicines 
and doctor’s bills. 

“ The woman we rented the miserable rooms of 
would not keep us when she knew our money was 
gone. Margaret and the baby were sent to the 
alms-house, and I wandered about, finding a shelter 
where I could. I had heard from Margaret, of An- 
drew Farrell’s death, and how the property had been 
willed, and I then made up my mind I would go 
home, and if I met Joseph Farrell there, have it out 
with him. I went to see Margaret before I left for 
home ; the baby was dead ; the fever had come 


220 the tragedy of BRINKWATER. 


back, and she was raving mad, and did not know 
me. She talked all the time about the man who had 
wronged her, and I took a vow by her bedside that 
if I ever saw him again I would get even with him. 

“ I got back to Brinkwater, sometimes walking and 
sometimes stealing rides on the railroad. Just as 
I was crossing the strip of woods between town and 
Brinkwater Heights, on the evening of the twentieth 
of June, I found I was just in time, for I met Joseph 
Farrell on his way to the Farrell mansion. He 
called to me to halt, and threatened if I stayed in 
the neighborhood to give me up. I couldn’t help 
but curse him, and he caught me by the throat and 
before I knew what was coming, struck me across 
the face with his heavy cane. You can see the scar 
yet,” said Dick, pointing to the red mark on his 
cheek. “ I knew I was no match for the brute, but 
my turn would come and I bided my time. I watched 
him out of sight, and then I made for the Farrell 
stables, where I meant to hide myself, knowing they 
weren’t used, though the loft I found was full of 
hay. I saw Artey Blunt prowling around, having 
come up, he said, to bid the pigeons good-night. We 
had always been great friends, and many a fine time 
we had had hunting and fishing together. Artey 
was glad to see me again, and consented, when I 
asked him to stay with me all night in the loft. 
He gave me a part of his supper, for he was fond 
of eating out of doors, and I got from him all I 
wanted to know. He told me Joseph Farrell was 
expected to stay that night at the house, for he and 


A DEATiT-BED confession. 221 

his mother had got the spare room ready. He 
pulled a key out of his pocket that he had taken, he 
told me, from a door of this room, which opened on 
an ante-room, and was seldom used. I knew he had 
a habit of picking any bright thing that pleased him, 
and this shining brass-key gave me the chance I 
wanted. I bought it of Artey for a little police- 
man’s whistle which I had, and which made a louder 
noise than the one ho used when he called the 
pigeons. 

“ My plan was laid at once. I knew the Farrell 
house from garret to cellar. I had often been 
there when a boy. Mr. Ernest had saved my life 
once, and after that I seemed to belong to him. 

“ I knew I should have no trouble with Artey. 
He came and went, and nobody hindered him. I 
could trust him, for he had a good memory, and he 
never forgot a threat. Many a secret we had 
together and he never betrayed me. An awful 
storm came up and before the rain fell, while the 
thunder was rattling, we climbed to the dove-cot, 
I following Artey up the ivy. It was an easy job 
for a sailor. I had plenty of matches, and we only 
had to pull off some loose boards to get into the 
attic. I saw an ofd pair of pantaloons hanging on 
a line, which Artey said belonged to him, and as it 
was my plan to throw the blame on the idiot, I took 
off my own pantaloons in the dark and put on his. 
We took off our shoes and stole down the attic 
stairs and listened at the closed door ; there was 
not a sound but the heavy falling of the rain, 


222 the tea gee V OF BRINK WATER, 

which favored us. There was a dim light burning 
in the hall, and we could see very well to get 
around. The night being hot Mrs. Farrell’s door 
had been left open, and we went in there first ; the 
room was full of the smell of chloroform and she 
seemed to be sleeping soundly. From the door- 
way a flash of lightning showed every thing in the 
room. Among the things I saw, for my eyes were 
turned toward the bed, was a yellow silk dressing- 
gown and a bottle of chloroform on a chair near the 
bed-side. I had only to put out my hand to reach 
them. I gave the dressing-gown to Artey, which he 
immediately put on. I took a handkerchief from the 
pocket and filled it with chloroform and placed it 
over Mrs. Farrell’s mouth. I soon knew from her 
heavy breathing she was under its influence and took 
it away, for I meant to use it again. Mr. Ernest’s 
room was far from the others, but I had always 
known he was a sound sleeper, so I did not think it 
necessary to take any precautions with him. I 
stopped at his door, however, to make sure he was 
asleep, and knew from his deep and regular 
breathing that he was. 

Joseph Farrell’s door opened easily enough 
under the carefully turned key. The attic door 
stood open and we had only to turn and fly if he 
made the least movement ; but he was in a dead 
sleep and had gone to bed leaving the shutters 
wide open, so that the constant play of lightning 
made every thing plain, and I had only to take 
advantage of the returning darkness to do my 


A DEATH- BED CONEESSION. 223 

work. I used the chloroform first. I knew the 
drug well, for I always had carried a small vial of 
it which the ship’s surgeon had given me to still 
my cough at night : the last of which I had used 
and thrown the bottle away in the stable. Artey 
was looking out of the window with both hands to 
the side of his face and his back toward the bed. 
I hadn’t yet made up my mind just what I would 
do, but I meant to put my mark on Joseph Farrell 
for life, as he had put his mark on me. But when I 
saw his sleek, villainous face, the thought of Margaret 
and her wretched fate made a madman of me, and 
I lost all self-control, and had done the deed almost 
before I knew what I was about. Artey never 
knew what happened, but I told him afterward 
that Joseph Farrell would never beat either of us 
again, which pleased him so much that it was all I 
could do to keep him from laughing aloud. 

He would have blown the whistle he carried if I 
had not snatched it from him, and thrown it under 
the bed, with a purpose" Then I lit the lamp and 
put the room in order, while Artey paraded himself 
before the glass. I knew Joseph Farrell had plenty 
of money, and I had none, so I helped myself from 
his pocket-book to enough to take me back to New 
York. Then we went down stairs, Artey carrying 
the things I wanted to hide. I did not dream at 
the time of getting Ernest Farrell into trouble ; he 
was niy best friend, and I meant to revenge his 
wrongs too, and would not have injured him for 
the world ; but I had no time to think of all this 


2 24 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 


till it was too late. I went to his room ; he 
did not stir as I leaned over him and I felt no fear 
of ^is waking, but the impulse that had brought 
me there, to tell him what I had done, shrank ap- 
palled at the thought of his innocence, and I turned 
and fled. I had now but one hope — escape — and 
one desire, the turning of suspicion from myself to 
Artey, who, I knew, was not accountable to the law. 

We came near being discovered as we went down 
stairs. Just as I got into the shadow of the lower 
hall, and as Artey was coming down with the 
things, Mrs. Farrell came out of her room and 
called faintly over the banister, but she was still 
under the influence of the chloroform, and turned 
away in the direction of her room. Artey knew 
where to find the cellar-door key, and by the light 
of a match that I had struck, I saw a great kitchen- 
knife lying on the table, which I had often seen in 
the hands of Artey when he sharpened it for his 
mother’s use. I put it in the place of my own and 
rolled it up with the gown and towel and carried 
them down to the cellar. By a strange piece of 
luck the cellar key unlocked the back hall-door, the 
key of which Mrs. Blunt must have taken, as it was 
not in the lock. When I got into the house 
I locked the back door with the cellar key and put 
it in its place again. Artey was half-way up stairs, 
but I stopped him and listened to hear if all was 
quiet. 

‘‘ When we got back to the garret where I had 
left my pantaloons, I changed again, throwing 


2-5 




A DEATH-BED CONFESSION, 

Artey’s old ones under the eaves where they 
would likely be found by any one searching the dove- 
cot. Then I made for the woods, after swearing 
the idiot to secrecy, and making a dreadful threat 
to kill him if he mentioned my name in connection 
with that night’s work. 

^T knew every step of the country in Claire County 
and I went for the nearest railroad. At a little sta- 
tion, I hid myself under the first train that pulled 
out and got to New York without any trouble. I 
meant to visit Margaret, and then go to sea again ; 
but when I got to the alms-house I found Margaret 
was dead, and buried. I loved that woman as I 
never loved another, beside my mother, and her 
death took all the courage out of me. I did not 
care whether I lived or died. I worked about at 
odd jobs, doing all I could to make my money 
last, but I could find no peace till I should hear 
news from home. I saw in one of the daily papers 
an account of the murder : the paper was six weeks 
old, and* was wrapped around a lunch I had bought. 
I had avoided the papers, and indeed all public 
places, for I was afraid of being arrested on the 
old count, and I knew if I was taken back it would 
be all over with me. 

“ Then I learned that Mrs. Farrell and Ernest 
were arrested for the murder. I still kept away, 
believing that the evidence would accuse Artey on 
the trial. I watched the papers after that, stinting 
myself of food to buy them, and all I read went to 
show that these two innocent people would die for 


2 26 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER, 

a crime they did not commit. I had no rest day nor 
night after that. I must get back, and if necessary 
confess in time to save them. But I meant to wait 
till the last moment. I knew there was a strong 
case against the idiot. His habit of nightly wan- 
dering, known to the whole neighborhood, his visits 
to the dove-cot, of which the family must have 
known, his concealed trowsers, with blood on them, 
for I had seen to that ; the whistle found in the dead 
man’s room ; the kitchen-knife that the boy had so 
often sharpened; the putting on of the yellow gown, 
the color of which had always attracted him and 
had been taken from his person several times ; the 
bottle of chloroform with bloody prints on it, half 
hid among the china trinkets on the mantel ; all this, 
with the idiot’s well known hatred of Joseph Farrell, 
who had once badly beaten him when he had 
been trusted to ride a valuable mare to 
water, and had ridden off with her and ruined her; 
his familiarity with the very room in which the 
murder was committed, seemed to me would make 
a very bad showing for Artey. I was afraid if he 
ever became a witness, he might betray me, but I 
hoped too, from his stubbornness when questioned, 
that he would keep my secret, for he was very close- 
mouthed, and always dodged a direct question. 
He had often puzzled me. But if it came to the 
worst I meant to confess to the deed. I was des- 
perate when I committed the murder ; the woman I 
would have died for, Joseph Farrell ruined and 
flung into the gutter, and because I loved, and 


A DEATH-BED CONFESSION. 


227 


knew that he had undone her, he pursued me with 
his hatred. The world was not wide enough for 
me and Joseph Farrell ; one of us had to go. That 
is all.” 

Then the idiot was sent for. He came into the 
room cowering with fear at the sight of the sick 
man and the officers. Dick called him to the bed- 
side, and took his trembling hand in his cold one. 

Artey,” he said, I am going away, and shall 
never come back. You may tell our secret now, 
for it can hurt neither of us. You were with me in 
the room the night* I went for Joseph Farrell, 
weren’t you ? ” 

I never told,” said the idiot, you swore you 
would kill me, if I did.’’ 

“ Yes, but you must tell, now I ask you to tell all 
that you know about it.” 

Not until Martha Blunt was sent for did the idiot 
yield up the story of the murder, but by her skillful 
coaxing and questioning, a corroboration of Dick’s 
testimony was obtained. Martha Blunt was deeply 
distressed at the shameful use made of her idiot 
son, and only forgave Dick when he told her that 
Artey’s assistance was passive, and he had no idea 
of the work to be done beyond the punishing of 
Joseph Farrell. He did not, at any time, seem to 
grasp the murder, although he knew that Joseph 
Farrell was dead and buried, but the gossip of the 
village made no impression on his volatile mind. 
His only thought after the murder and the disper- 
sion of the family, \yas for the pigeons, lest he be 


228 




THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKVVATER, 

separated from them, and they, through his neglect, 
should come to harm. All lesser feelings in the 
heart of Martha Blunt gave way, however, be- 
fore her joy in Agnes Farrell’s escape ; her son she 
knew would not suffer beyond, perhaps, confine- 
ment, and with that she was content. 

The housekeeper was sent for in some haste, 
and went below while the deputy-sheriff and the 
notary finished the examination. It was mid- 
night when the last words of the confession were 
written. Richard Martin was greatly excited by 
the efforts he had made, and* never rallied from the 
exhaustion that followed. 

Mrs. Martin entered the room the moment the 
officers left it. 

It’s done, and I feel better,” was Dick’s greet- 
ing. Here is a letter, mother, I have written at 
odd times, I thought you would want to read what 
I have told the officers, after I am gone, and if I 
had died before to-morrow, you know it would 
have been useful to father. Remember, mother, 
you said you would forgive me, no matter how 
wicked I had been. You meant it, mother t ” 

Richard, there is no choice, a mother must for- 
give her erring child.” 

“ I am sorry for it all, mother, and the grief I 
have caused you and father. Ask him to forgive 
me, too. It was hard to make up my mind to come 
home after I had dishonored you. I hid myself in 
Mrs. Farrell’s loft for weeks before I was driven to 
face you, mother. The night father came to the 


A DEATH-BED CONFESSION. 229 

house, he almost caught me. I had gone to the 
dove-cot to get the bread and stuff I knew Artey 
brought there to the pigeons, and without which I 
should have starved, and I had to run for my life 
and get back to my hiding-place. When he came 
to the stable for his horse, and heard me moving 
overhead, he thought it was Artey, and called, 

^ Come, my boy, your mother wants you 1 ’ it 
seemed to me that you had sent him, and I must 
go. He touched me with his foot once, when 
he was searching the loft, but it was not given 
father to find — the man he was looking for, thank 
God ! 

I think there were two Dick Martins, mother, 
one was always warring against the other, and the 
bad Dick generally won. If I should get well, 
may be Fd be bad again, it is better to go now 
while I am sorry and wish to do right. I have 
suffered a great deal — and deserved to. If there is 
any excuse to be found for me, I know you will 
find it. And, mother, when the baby grows up, 
don’t let him know he had a wicked brother. I 
do not want him to hate me. Tell him about the 
baby-Richard. I saw his little picture in your 
work-basket, and he looked so pretty and innocent. 
I never thought he would come to this pass ; did 
you, mother ? ” 

She sorrowfully shook her head, too full of woe 
for words. 

I had a foolish wish to take it with me, it 
seemed a part of my innocence, but I will leave it 


230 THE TRAGEDY OF BRIHKWATER. 


with you, dear mother ; keep it in your work- 
basket, and when you are tempted to think hardly 
of me, let its baby beauty plead for your dead boy, 
and try to forget the Richard Martin that ran 
away, and went wrong ; or, only remember him to 
pray for him. We never — know — how — we — will — 

act — till — we — are tempt ” breath failed him ; 

he threw his weary arms above his head, and with 
one long sigh expired. 

Mary Martin guessed the truth now, but all her 
soul went out in love, and pity, and forgiveness 
toward the weak and erring soul of her first-born. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


A MARRIAGE AND A REPRIEVE. 

I T was midnight when the deputy-sheriff and 
notary public waked the judge and asked for 
instructions. Inform Mrs. Farrell at once,” the 
judge commanded, when the first sentence of the 
confession was read to him. This is monstrous ! 
You say the villain who committed the murder is 
dead ? No? He deserves hanging, if he is on a 
dying bed.” 

But there was to be no execution on the morrow ; 
death had forestalled the work of the hangman. 
The useless gallows, that stood as a menace to evil- 
doers, must be taken down before another sun 
should rise upon the shameful thing. 

In his amazement at the turn matters had taken, 
the deputy-sheriff had totally forgotten that the 
marriage rite was to be solemnized between Ernest 
Farrell and Virgin Grey, in the cell of the prisoner, 
at her request. He went down with the confession 
of Richard Martin, meaning to have the mar- 
riage ceremony postponed until a happier hour 
and fitter place was found. 


232 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

But Martha Blunt had been before him. Ernest 
and Virgin, accompanied by the clergyman and 
Mrs. and Mr. Lawrence, had driven to the sheriff's 
house, and Martha, having charge of the prison 
keys, had admitted them to the cell of Agnes 
Farrell. The ceremony was in progress as the 
deputy-sheriff appeared at the door of the cell, and 
he dare not intrude upon the solemn scene, even 
with his joyful tidings. 

Virgin, clothed in black, with a white covering on 
her head, looked like a young nun receiving her 
vows of renunciation, rather than a happy maiden 
wedding a loving and beloved bridegroom. Ernest 
Farrell went through the ceremony with the air of 
a man who was performing a sacred duty to gratify 
the wish of a dying mother. 

Agnes Farrell stood more unmoved than any of 
the company in the black and dimly-lighted cell. 
Her tall form, attenuated to emaciation by grief 
and long confinement, was draped for the grave in 
a loose, white, flowing robe. Her noble and aqui-. 
line features were lighted by a serene joy that 
transfigured her wan and wasted face. Her crown 
of snow-white hair gave her the aspect of a vener- 
able priestess presiding at some holy, religious 
rite. 

Outside the prison walls a strange, weird scene 
was in progress. The starless midnight heavens 
were lit up by a red glare that threw a wild, fantas- 
tic light on every object : the hideous gallows and 


A MAKI^IAGE AND A DEFRIEVE. 233 

the massive prison loomed black against it. The 
people, swarming in the streets, were metamor- 
phosed in the crimson glow. 

“ I wonder if it’s the millennium ? ” said one. 

“ No, it’s the o-rory-bory-allis,” said another. 

^‘Then the aurora borealis and the millennium 
iOoks mightily like a house a-fire,” said a third, 
“ and it’s Brinkwater ways — looks like the whole 
town was burnin’ up. It’s only two miles acrost, 
ain’t it ? ” 

“Yes. It’s Brinkwater Heights, too. If I were 
goin’ to give a guess. I’d say it was the Farrell 
homestid.” 

“ Here comes Jim Denby, he’ll know' all about 
it,” continued the last speaker, as the little grave- 
digger, out of breath from running across fields, 
with his momentous news, rushed upon the scene 
with his hair on end like a blown comet. 

Yes, it was true. The stables had caught and 
communicated the fire to the house, in the night, 
and when the excited denizens of Brinkwater were 
aroused it was too late to do any thing. Denby, 
in the futile hope of getting aid, had run all the 
way to Marshmeadows. 

“ How strange,” said an old woman, gifted with 
the power to instruct, “ how strange the house 
should ketch a-fire the very night afore the 
hangin’ ! Seems like there’s a providence in 
it.” 

“Ye needn’t be makin’ a pack-horse o’ Provi- 
dence to carry yer ill natur’. I guess Providence 


^34 THE TEA GEE V OF BRINKWAJER, 

’ll get along without yer help,” said Denby with 
indignant emphasis. 

I don’t see as the Farrells air goin’ to git along 
without your’n, Jim ; one would think you had had a 
finger in the murder yerself, ye’re so tetchy about 
them as had.” 

“ Them^ as had ! ” roared Denby ; ef you’re 
includin’ Ernest Farrell in that remark, why you’re 
a liar, that’s all ! ” 

Fm not countin’ in Ernest Farrell,” retorted 
the other, “ but I guess it’ll take a power o’ hen- 
derin’ providences to save his mother from swing- 
in’.” 

“ Andjr^^ wouldn’t be one of ’em if you had the 
chance,” said Denby. 

Don’t be slingin’ your words round so promis- 
cuous,” broke in David Fry, who had been conduct- 
ing a fervid revival meeting and had come upon, 
the scene followed by the whole congregation to 
witness the great fire. Isn’t thet foreshadowin’ 
of hell ? ” pointing to the gallows, enough to 
make ye hold your reproachful tongues? ’Twas 
hot words help’t to build thatr 

‘‘ It seems to set yours a waggin’, David,” said 
the grave-digger. 

Oh, it’s his privilege to wag ; it’s bread and 
butter to him,” answered Denby’s companion. 

But all warring words were silenced now, for a 
sudden rumor thrilled the air ; a ripple went over 
the multitude, a movement of the mass, as though 
an impulse of rescue had seized it like a panic, and 


A MARRIAGE AND A REPRIEVE. 235 

a wild shout tore the air as the crowd surged 
toward the jail and poured like a flood into the 
open corridor. 

The ceremony in the cell of Agnes Farrell, that 
united forever the two beings she loved best, was 
over ; the minister and all the company were kneel- 
ing and had joined in the last prayer for the newly- 
wedded pair, and the woman who believed herself 
so soon to die a shameful death. 

Save her ! save her ! shouted the excited 
crowd, ere the prayer was ended. Not one of the 
throng had had a thought for the salvation of Agnes 
Farrell when she needed a saviour, and now that 
all danger was past, each was eager to lend a help- 
ing hand. 

She heard the first words of Richard Martin’s 
confession, the cry of the multitude, and saw in 
the face of her son a transport of joy that turned 
the prison gloom to sunlight. She raised her eyes 
and cast a look of yearning love upon him ; address- 
ing him, rather than the crowd of spectators that 
swam before her vision like figures in a dream, 
she said : 

I thought God had forsaken us, and I forswore 
myself to save my son.” She slid from his embrace 
and fell at his feet. Forgive, forgive your mother, 
my child ! ” 

He stooped and raised her with tears of rapture 
raining down his cheeks. A smile of ineffable 
beauty transfigured her face. She clung a moment 
to his neck, then her weary arms relaxed, the heavy 


236 the tragedy oe brinkwater, 

eyelids drooped, she would have sunk in a heap on 
the prisqn floor if his strong arms had not sus- 
tained her. 

‘‘ This shock of joy is too great for her weak- 
ness,” said the rector. She has fainted ; clear 
the cell, and give her air ! ” 

They bore her to the cot and laid her down : 
every effort was made to restore her, but it was too 
late — Agnes Farrell’s sufferings were over. She 
had got her reprieve from a higher tribunal ! 

* * ❖ Jjs 

Brinkwater was at peace. The long feud between 
Agnes Farrell and her step-son was over. The 
turf of the village church-yard swelled greenly 
above them both. Nature is no respecter of per- 
sons. The butterfly, the bird, the bee, that swam 
in the drowsy summer air paid their impartial 
visits to each grave. All was made decent by the 
dignity of death. 

* 5i< * 

The evening light was waning as two men, in 
earnest talk, took their way through Brinkwater 
church-yard. 

They say he’s cornin’ back,” said the grave- 
digger, sitting down on a tombstone, and turning 
his dim eyes on David Fry, who took his place 
beside him, and nobody ’ll be gladder of it than 
ril be.” 

Five year in a foreign land ’ill likely make 




A MARRIAGE AND A REPRIEVE, 237 

him vally his own country more’n ever/’ replied 
David Fry. 

1 don’t know as he ever went back on his own 
country,” said Denby, disposed, from long habit, 
to defend every act of Ernest Farrell’s. 

‘‘ No, ’twas some of his countrymen came pretty 
nigh goin’ back on him,” said Fry, facetiously. 

‘‘Aren’t ye ever goin’ to let that ghost rest?” 
asked Denby sorrowfully. “ I’d like to dig one 
more grave, and that so deep and wide it would 
bury all the evil, wagging tongues in Claire County.” 

“ And as fer as I’m consarned, I’d like to 
read the burial-service over ’em,” said David 
Fry. 

“Well, David,” returned Denby, “let’s look on 
the funeral as over fer you and me, and see to it 
that we treat Ernest Farrell, when he comes back, 
with his wife and children, as a man who suffered 
shame and sorrow for the sake o’ the truth, and 
look on the new house he’s goin’ to build, on the 
ruins of the old one, as a sort o’ monument to 
Agnes Farrell, whose terrible suffering has taught 
us a lesson in charity we won’t be likely soon to 
forgit.” 

“Amen,” responded David Fry. 

**:*«*** 

“ I’ve many blessings, Mary ; you and our boy 
are the first, and greatest,” said Samuel Martin, 
now no longer Sheriff of Claire County : “ and many 
things to be thankful for ; but for nothing am I 


238 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. 

more thankful and grateful, than that Agnes 
Farrell and her son escaped, as by fire, a shame- 
ful and unmerited death ; and,” he added, after a 
pause, “ that Richard Martin died in his bed.” 


THE END. 



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